


Finding Courage

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 11, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Gabriel, Castiel Big Bang 2017, Guilty Dean, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Suicidial Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: By allowing Lucifer to use him as a vessel, Castiel helped eliminate the Darkness and saved the World. But it may have been at the cost of Sam and Dean's friendship. Deciding he has nothing to live for without that, Castiel plans to end his life on his terms and be at peace---if only a certain ghost of an archangel would leave him alone. Meanwhile, Dean needs to learn to use his words.A Supernatural "It"s A Wonderful Life" AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> Great thanks to the mods for organizing this wonderful challenge to show our favorite angel just how much he is loved; and my wonderful artist kuwlshadow. She is awesome and I have been lucky enough to get her THREE times for fic challenges--and we have another collab coming your way this summer. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Depression, Suicide Attempt, Hospitalization 
> 
> Betaed by: xxinfinitywriterxx
> 
> [ART MASTERPOST](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/post/159922467668/title-finding-courage-author-darkheartinthesky)

 

 

 

 

Death is easy. To live is the most painful thing I could imagine and I’m weak and no longer willing to fight.

—Hannah Wright

 

 

 

            “ _Lucifer?!_ ” Dean yelled and shoved Castiel hard. Castiel stumbled, chest shuddering, lungs rattling against his ribcage. Dean’s face was purple, his shoulders sagging. His soul was a macabre of reds and oranges, the colors flaring in intensity like sun spots. Castiel swallowed and tried to still his trembling muscles.

            “What the fuck were you thinking?” Dean ran his hand over his face, pulling at his lips, growling like an enraged animal.

            Castiel stood up straight and schooled his face into the mask he had to wear. The mask of a soldier of God. He had known Dean wouldn’t approve of his choice to house Lucifer; but truth be told, he had assumed that he wouldn’t survive the aftermath and would avoid this particular conversation.

            “The fucking devil!” Dean swung his arm out, knocking over a set of drinking glasses that had been resting on the tabletop. They shattered, pieces of glass flying at speeds faster than cars, and Castiel couldn’t help the stillness that came over him, the way he tracked Dean’s every little movement. All his life, he’d been a warrior, trained to observe before attacking. Dean’s agitation radiated in the room like static. Somewhere in the back of his throat, Castiel tasted blood.

            “After all we gave up to put him in the fucking ground, and you go undo all of it! And for what? A _hunch_?”

            “Dean,” Sam said, speaking up for the first time. Castiel had almost forgotten Sam was even there, just another piece of evidence of his failure as an angel, that he was losing track of such mundane things. “Dean, calm down.”

            Sam reached out to grab Dean’s elbow, but Dean wrenched out of it.

            “Are you really that fucking stupid?”

            Dean looked straight at Castiel as he said it, eyes burning like fire, and Castiel’s throat was tight. Dean’s heated pants filled the space that had never before seemed so small.

            “I thought,” Castiel began, but the words fought against him, clogged at the bottom of his throat. He had to force them out, like a rush of water in a narrow tube. “He was our only option.”

            It’s useless, he knew, to defend himself. His crime was atrocious, just another catastrophe to add to his ever expanding list, that seems to go farther back than his own memory.

            “No, he wasn’t! I told you, we’d find another way!”

            “There was no other way!” Castiel hadn’t meant to yell, but it seemed beyond his control in that moment. Emotions he was still unaccustomed to stirred hot in the pit of his stomach. His nerves were boiling under his skin—this body was more him now than his true form, this sack of meat barely held together by sinew and tendons forced to contain an eldritch that was one thousand feet high.  “You had no _idea_ what we were facing! They used to tell stories about the Darkness to frighten us---to keep us in line! Stories of the Darkness eating angels who disobeyed, of the havoc She wrought on all Creation. If the Darkness had won, there would have been _nothing_ left. _Everything_ would be gone—all of it, without a trace! The entire _Universe!_ Lucifer had battled against the Darkness once before and came out victorious—he was our only hope.”

            Dean shook his head, seething with his teeth gnashed together. “You just don’t get it, do you? Instead of having one big Biblical Bad to deal with, we had two.  And one them was Lucifer, who, need I remind you—hates our guts!”

            Castiel wished he had died in the aftermath that conquered both Lucifer and the Darkness. He didn’t want to be here, cowering under Dean’s glare, forced to futilely defend himself. It didn’t matter what he said or did, Dean would never be swayed, never see it from Castiel’s point of view. Dean would never understand.

 He never even tried.

            “Oh, now you go silent,” Dean said, rolling his eyes dramatically and slapping his hands against his thighs.

            “Dean--,” Sam tried to cut in again, but Dean spun, hot on his heels and wagged his finger in Sam’s face.

            “Not a word,” Dean said.

            “You’re being unfair--” Sam’s voice pitched higher, eyes locked onto his brother.

            “Don’t you dare defend him--”

            “So I’m just supposed to let you attack him and watch--”

            “Well, of course you’re going to take his side, you had the same harebrained scheme too--”

            “Because Cas is right, Lucifer was our--”

            “There is always another option besides letting the fucking devil wear you as a fucking prom dress!”

            “Oh, yeah, Dean? Well, what were our options?”

            “Stop it!” Castiel shouted, pressing his hands against his ears. “Stop fighting!” He didn’t want to fight, he hated fighting, he was useless in a fight, with his broken wings and sputtering grace, now more man than angel than ever. He hated fighting, angels weren’t supposed to fight, they were guardians—donned to protect humanity, and that’s all Castiel had wanted to do. Protect the Winchesters, protect the Earth, from a primordial evil they knew nothing about.

            But now the Winchesters were fighting because of him, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Sam subjected himself to Dean’s rage on Castiel’s behalf. Sam should be angry with him too. Castiel knew better than anyone—even Dean—the sorts of torments Sam experienced at Lucifer’s hand. He’d been there, when Lucifer stuck his hand in Sam’s gut and twisted his soul, and he only barely had been able to wrestle away the reigns in time to save Sam from permanent damage. Castiel had brought back Sam’s worst nightmare. Sam should be furious with him.

            Both brothers were staring at him now after his outburst, and Castiel had never before felt so small.

            “I only wanted to help,” Castiel whispered, the fight deflated out of his voice.

            Dean’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “You know what, Cas? How about you do everyone a favor and stop helping.”

            Castiel had had bones broken. He suffered stab wounds, and gunshots, Naomi’s tools skewering his brains into mush. He’d felt Dean’s own fists hurtling down towards him, shattering bones, cracking teeth, and for a brief moment, the severe surety that Dean would kill him.

            Nothing---not one single item, throughout his entire existence, spanning from the parting of the Red Sea to this moment—hurt as much as that singular moment.

            He had no words. But something raced through his veins, like electricity. His throat tightened, and his eyes burned, and Dean kept looking at him like _that._ And Castiel hated it. Dean couldn’t even begin to comprehend what Castiel was. He was one thousand feet tall, as ancient as the stars. To Castiel, Dean’s entire lifetime was the blink of an eye.

            And yet Dean just had to look at him like _that_ and Castiel might as well be an ant. Shame curdled in Castiel’s stomach and he had to look away. Dean snorted, and that was it. Castiel had to blink back tears. He would not cry, not in front of Dean. But his nose began to itch, and he tasted salt in the back of his throat. Castiel despised this human body, and how with every passing day, it  became more him than his true form, scarred and wrecked beyond recognition.

            Sam’s mouth was agape, and he looked like he’d been struck. Castiel didn’t understand why, but he knew he couldn’t be here any longer. He was a fool to ever think that maybe the bunker could be his home too. He wasn’t wanted here.

            Castiel turned away and headed for the long, spiral staircase.

            “Cas, wait!” Sam cried, following after Castiel as he made his way up the staircase, the large, metal door at the top seeming a mile away.

            Dean pulled Sam back by the elbow of his sleeve. “Let him go, Sam. Leaving’s what he does best anyway!”

            Castiel paused at the door, hand hovering above the handle. He waited for a moment after Dean’s latest proclamation. He had no way to defend himself.

            Then, Castiel swung the door open and stepped outside into the cold wilderness, and the bunker door slammed loudly behind him.

.

.

.

 

                                                                       

           

He walked. And walked. And walked. His phone had begun to ring only a few minutes after his departure from the bunker. Castiel had paused, and took it from his coat pocket. _Sam Calling_ flashed on the tiny screen. Castiel stared at it for a long while before he threw it as far as he could. It flew past the horizon, out of sight, and for a single moment, Castiel was envious.

 When he had left the bunker the sun had begun to peak over the horizon, and he walked as it began to sink back down past the ground. Though Castiel was more human than angel these days, he was thankful that he still did not need to attend to the basic necessities of being human, like resting.

            The entire time he walked, he could not get Dean’s words out of his mind. They bounced around on repeat, circling over and over, and nothing Castiel did would silence them.

            _Stop helping._

            Dean was right. Every time, Castiel only ever wanted to help; and every time, he only ever made things worse. He had committed the worst cardinal sin against Dean—endanger Sam. Freeing Lucifer, and becoming a prisoner inside his own mind, Castiel got the front row seat to all of Lucifer’s fantasies of what he would do to the Winchester brothers once he got hold of them.

            Lucifer always enjoyed an audience.

            Castiel knew the risks of freeing Lucifer; but Lucifer was nothing compared to the Darkness. And if Lucifer could defeat the Darkness, then the Winchesters would be able to defeat Lucifer. Castiel had been sure of it.

            And he hoped not to survive at all.

            But here he was. Alive, still, against all odds, and against Castiel’s own wishes. Castiel was so tired of living, of the back and forth, of being so close to freedom only to be yanked by the neck back into this world of violence and hatred.

            Castiel looked to the sky, watched as the stars began to twinkle against the backdrop of space. Snow crunched underneath his boots and began to collect on his shoulders and settle in his hair, and he thought of death.

            Maybe Castiel needed to do it himself.

            He had nothing. The angels scorned him, the Winchesters despised him, and his own Father, even after all these years, all his prayers, his pleads, still ignored him.

            Not an angel, not a man, Castiel was some sort of in-between thing that yo-yoed between life and death constantly and he was sick of it. He just wanted it to be over. Nothing was supposed to live forever, and Castiel was so tired.

            Castiel came to a small woods beside a stretch of highway. He could hear cars driving by, and occasionally would be momentarily blinded by a set of headlights coming his way. He came to an old oak tree. He put his hand on the bark, and then he knew the story of the tree. How it was planted by a small boy back on an October day in 1862, and that it survived all this time against the harsh winter weathers.

            Castiel pulled his hand away. He braced his back against the tree trunk and slide to the earth, the snow wetting his pants and coat.

            The boy had come to visit the tree every year, and the tree had come to enjoy the boy’s visits, even as that boy grew into a man. There was mark on the tree, way up near the top, where the boy and his lover had marked their initials; and underneath, were the marks the boy’s children had made, and then the boy’s grandchildren.

            And then one day the boy didn’t come, and neither did his children, nor his grandchildren. It was just another tree, now, no different than the hundreds just like it that drivers passed every day on their commute to work.

            Castiel sighed. He pulled his angel blade from the ether and stared at it, the way the moonlight bounced off it.

            Every time, Castiel had always been slain at another’s hand. Maybe that was why it never stuck. If this was merely a test of pride, then Castiel had failed miserably. Castiel had always acknowledged his mistakes, and at every turn he had done nothing but his best to amend them, but maybe it’s not enough just to fix what he’d broken.

            Maybe he had to eradicate the source.

            Castiel stared down at his angel blade, the one that was still his own; not ones he’d taken from the dead bodies of brothers and sisters and given to the Winchesters. This was his own, the one he forged himself when he was still a fledgling, about to take his vows as a warrior of God.

            In Japan, _seppuku_ was practiced for many centuries; and while Castiel had no hope that he could ever die honorably, not after the crimes he’d wrought with his own hands, he still thought it a befitting way to die, because it put the responsibility on him.

            Castiel inhaled. The cold, wintery air burned at his lungs. He pinched his eyes shut and then jammed the blade into his stomach. Castiel bit his lips to suppress a pained cry. His nerves caught fire, his muscles felt like jelly, and wet, warmth spread over his palms, making them sticky. Castiel threw his head back against the bark of the tree, and he pulled the blade across his stomach, teeth clenched together so hard, he thought for a moment they would crack with the force.

            The blade ripped through muscle and nerves like soft butter, and Castiel fell sideways, his cheek pressed against the snow. His grip fell from the blade, and it took every iota of strength he had to curl his hand around his head. His fingertips were bright, brilliant red. A small, gentle stream of blue coiled out his belly and twirled like smoke towards the sky.

            Castiel watched it blearily, as the last remnants of his grace reached for the stars.

            Blackness crawled into his vision from the circumference inwards. Every breath was a labor, each time growing shallower and further apart.

            With his limited vision, Castiel watched the pure, white snow grow stained red, and he thought, “I really do ruin everything” before the blackness consumed him.

 

                                                                                      

.

.

.

 

                                                           

           

“Dean,” Sam said in his panicked voice that made Dean want to bang his head against the wall. Agitation flared at his fingertips, rang inside his head and suddenly everything was irritating. “Dean, you—you—we have to go after him!”

            Dean scoffed as he grabbed the bottle of brandy off one of the side tables and popped the cap off with his teeth. “Do we?” he said, downing a large gulp. It burned his throat and left a sour taste in his mouth, but he chased it away quickly with another swallow.

            “Yes!”

            “He made his choice,” Dean said rolling his shoulders. He didn’t want hear the name Castiel, or even think of him. Castiel was a pig-headed bastard, and if he wanted to leave, that was his call. Good riddance, Dean thought, as he went for his third swallow of the brandy.

            Sam stalked towards him, eyes pleading, and god, Dean hated that look on his brother. It was absolutely pathetic.

            “He didn’t have a choice, Dean--,” Sam began to say, but Dean cut him off.

            “He always has a choice!” Dean screamed. It echoed through the halls of the entire bunker, rattled in the high ceilings. “We always have a choice! Everyone always has a choice! And, Sam, bear with me, just for a moment. Now, I know I’m not the smartest guy in the room, but I am the only one that hasn’t let the fucking devil down my throat—“

            “Like that gives you a right to be self-righteous! Cas made the right call, you know he did! You’re just pissed he had the balls to do what you wouldn’t! The Darkness is gone, the world is saved—“

            “He could’ve brought a whole new Apocalypse down on us!”

            “But he didn’t—“

            “If he had rubbed two brain cells together and _thought_ for one fucking second—“

            “He saved the world—“

            “Yeah, well, half the time he’s the one that almost ends up destroying it—“

            “Half the time, _we’re_ the ones destroying it! I don’t know where you got on this high horse all of a sudden—“

            “How about when he let freaking Lucifer, honest-to-god Satan, run the earth? Lucifer, who hates us, and wants to torture us? And you! You should be pissed at him too!”

            “Exactly, Dean! If any of us gets to be pissed at what Cas did, it should be me! But I’m not! Want to know why? Cause Cas made the right call. And you know it! Even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

            Dean scoffed, rolled his eyes and turned around. He was so done. Done with arguing with Sam, done with talking about it. Of course he would get stuck with the biggest imbeciles in the entire Universe that would always take the choice of letting Lucifer in, instead of looking for an alternative.

            He took another large swallow of the brandy, and his head was finally starting to feel light, his bones loose. He tightened his grip on the bottleneck and went to his room, slamming the bedroom door so harshly it shook the walls.

            With his back braced against the door, Dean drank again. And again. And again. Until he couldn’t think, until the brandy didn’t burn anymore, until his sight started to thin, and he couldn’t stand upright.

.

.

            Dean woke up on his bedroom floor with the worst hangover he’d had in years. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head. His mouth was as dry as a desert, his lips chapped.

            Dean pushed himself to a sitting position with his elbows, groaning at the ache in his spine.

            He rubbed his temples, struggling to remember how he ended up in this position.

            It took some maneuvering to get to his feet. Dean braced against wall as he made his way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. His movements were sluggish. His legs moved like jelly filled them instead of bone. It took him much longer than necessary, but eventually he crossed the threshold into the kitchen and had recovered enough stability to let go of the walls. Sam sat at the table, hunched over his laptop.

            Dean went to the coffee maker and filled a warm cup. He took two, large swallows, the warmth of the coffee lessening the ache in his stomach. Dean turned around and braced himself against the countertop. He circled the rim of the coffee cup with his finger.

            He cleared his throat. “Yesterday actually happened, didn’t it,” he said.

            Sam smacked his lips. “Yup.”

            “I actually said those things to you. And to Cas.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “And Cas left.”

            “Appears so.”

            “Goddamnit,” Dean said pinching the bridge of his nose. He had hoped, foolishly, that maybe the events of yesterday had all been a dream, and that Cas would be in the bunker, okay, and Sam wouldn’t be pissed at him.

            “That’s one way to put it,” Sam said.

            Dean walked to the table and sat in the seat next to Sam. The scrapping of the chair against the floor rattled at his brain, and Dean gritted his teeth. He really hadn’t had a hangover this bad since….well, since before Cas came barreling into his life. Cas had taken up the task of curing Dean’s hangovers. He had forgotten how bad they actually were.

            “Okay, so what do we do?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “We’re gonna go after him, aren’t we?”

            “Oh, _now_ you want to go after him, huh?”

            Dean blanched. Sam sighed.

            “I put out an APB with nearby hunters. Also searched the GPS on his phone. It must’ve died, but about eight hours ago it pinged about an hour away from Hastings.”

            “Okay, so what are we still doing here then? Let’s go after him.”

            “Yeah? What’s your plan Dean?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “What, we’re gonna track him down and he’s just gonna come home with us?”

            “Yes,” Dean said. “This is his home too.”

            “You said some pretty awful things, Dean. I don’t think an ‘I’m sorry’ and a pat on the back is gonna undo it all.”

            “I was pissed, and worried,” Dean said. “He could’ve gotten killed! And it was like he didn’t even care! No, he didn’t even think about what might happen to him with this whole saying yes to Lucifer crap! I was pissed that he never thinks of himself, pissed that he always dives headfirst under every flaming bus that comes his way, without ever thinking! Is that too much for, Sam? That once—just once—he thinks about his own safety?”

            Sam blinked. “Is that really how you feel?”

            “Yes!”

            “That wasn’t how it sounded yesterday.”

            “I know how it sounded,” Dean snapped. “I was there! I know what I said!”

            “Yeah, but did you ever once look at Cas’s face? Really look at it? Dean, he was devastated.”

            Dean licked his lips. “You were right yesterday, Sam. He did save the world. And when we find him, I’m gonna make sure he knows that every single day. Now, come on—it’s below freezing out there. Let’s go find our angel.”

            “We don’t even know where to start, though. I’ve got his phone’s location from eight hours ago. Eight hours is a long time. And he doesn’t need to rest—“

            “Yeah, yeah, he’s already got a head start, and you know what happens the longer we sit around here arguing about it? He’s getting further away! Let’s just…let’s just to where the phone is and start from there.”

            Sam nodded. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Let’s go.” Sam stood up, and the chair scrapped against the tile again. Dean clenched his teeth and put his hand to his head.

            “Uh,” Sam said. “I’m gonna drive.”

            Dean frowned, but nodded. “Okay. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

.

.

.

            The car ride made Dean antsy. He kept going over in his mind how he would react when he came across Castiel. He was afraid of Sam being right, that no amount of ‘I’m sorrys’ and explanations would ever make up for the stuff he said.

            He did see Cas’s face when Dean said all those horrible things—especially the part about stop helping. Cas’s face almost seemed to melt off, and Dean felt like he was looking at a frightened child. No words could describe the hurt that radiated across Cas’s face and carried down his entire body, and it pained Dean’s heart because _he_ was the one to put that look there.

            Dean didn’t know how he would make it up to Cas, but he would try every damn day for the rest of his life if that’s what it took.

            It only took about an hour’s drive before they got to the location where the GPS picked Cas’s phone up. It was a snow-covered forest. Sam pulled the Impala over to the edge and the brothers got out. Sam had the tracking app on his phone, so he lead the way.

            Dean searched every direction for any sign of Castiel—for a glimpse of beige against the backdrop of white, but there was nothing.

            “Dean,” Sam said eventually. Dean looked forward and saw Sam crouched on the ground brushing the earth with his hand.

            Dean came over Sam’s shoulder and his stomach dropped. Cas’s phone lay on the ground, dinged and chipped in a way it wasn’t the last time Dean had seen it.

            “He ditched it,” Dean said slowly. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and all the implications of this new discovery started running through Dean’s mind.

            Sam picked it up and dusted off the snow. It was useless, Dean thought; the damn thing had been in the snow for who knows how long, and now their only lead on Cas was gone.

            Sam pocketed the phone and stood to his full height. Dean’s throat tightened.

            “Hey,” Sam said, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. We always do, don’t we?”

            “Yeah,” Dean forced himself to say. He rubbed his hand over his face and tried to calm his shuddering lungs.

            He was hit with a replay of all the horrendous stuff he’d told Castiel. He and Cas had their share of fights before (Dean didn’t want to think about those) but they’d always been under some sort of extraneous control, or were trying to convince the other from doing something incredibly stupid. Never had their fights been so personal before. Never had Dean fought with Castiel with the intent to hurt him.

            It was such a stupid thing, if Dean thought about it; to think that a being as ancient and magnificent, as  powerful and terrifying as Castiel could be wounded by someone as insignificant as Dean. But he was. Every time Dean closed his eyes, the image of Cas’s fallen face was imprinted in his mind.

            “Where do we even start?” Dean said, looking at his brother. Sam sighed, shoulders sagging.

            “Have you tried praying?”

            “I don’t even know if he hears those anymore.”

            Sam chewed on his lower lip. “Well, give it a shot, at least. And then we’ll start where we always do. Bars, diners, bus stations—someone’s had to see him. We’ll find him. I promise.”

            Dean nodded, but uncertainty still hung low in his gut. He couldn’t explain it, but there was an itch at the back of his brain that wouldn’t go away. And it had nothing to do with his lingering hangover. This was something Dean couldn’t explain. It was like static in his brain, on repeat, and he couldn’t quiet it. He wanted to believe his brother, but something rang in his nerves and murmured in his brain and he couldn’t shut it off.

            _When_ they found Cas (because it had to be _when._ Dean couldn’t ever live with himself with _if_ ) things would never be the same. Dean couldn’t go back and un-say all those horrible things he said. He couldn’t ever wipe that look of abject devastation off Cas’s face.

            Dean shook his head and tried to focus on a stick poking out of the snow. It didn’t help. Nothing would quiet the storm in his mind that something was very, very wrong with Cas right now.

            He just didn’t know what it might be.

.

.

.

           

                                                                       

 

            The ground underneath Castiel was warm. He slowly became aware of the sensations against his body and grace. The air was tepid and the pressure in his head had vanished.

            “Wake up, little bro,” a voice called.

            Castiel knew that voice…it brought forth a tsunami of memories, reaching as far back as the start of Creation—a cocky, jolly grin, and the feeling of acceptance.

            Castiel opened his eyes. He was encased in white—white, on all sides. But it wasn’t snow.

            “Sit up,” the voice said.

            Castiel blinked, eyes looking for the source. He pushed himself up on his elbows and was frozen in place for a long moment.

            “Hello, Gabriel,” he said, once he found his voice.

            Gabriel looked exactly as Castiel had remembered him. His golden wings arched behind him with pride, and Castiel unconsciously brought his own wings closer to his back, where they hung limply off his shoulder blades.

            Then, the shame dissipated as realization struck Castiel like lightning. Gabriel was _dead._ Castiel put his hand to his stomach and his wound was gone—as was the blood that had stained his clothing.

            “Am I dead?” Castiel asked his brother, as elation jolted his bones. Was it finally over? Could he finally be at peace?

            Castiel looked to Gabriel, expecting _something._ His brother’s gentle grin, and open arms—some sort of off-beat joke and an invitation to walk with him.

            That wasn’t what he saw.

            Gabriel’s face was drawn, his mouth turned into a frown; his eyes didn’t have the carefree spark that had become synonymous  with his name. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and Castiel was reminded that Gabriel was an archangel, with more power in one fingertip than Castiel ever could have hoped to have in his whole being, even when he was at full power.

            Castiel slunk under Gabriel’s glare.

            Gabriel sighed.

            “Not exactly,” Gabriel said eventually.

            The elation that Castiel had in his bones deflated. He felt empty inside.

            “What?”

            “You asked if you were dead. I said, not exactly.”

            “What do you mean? If I’m not dead, where are we? How are you here?” Castiel tried to keep the devastation out of voice, but it was a battle itself.

            No. No no. No, no, no no no no!

            He had to be dead. He needed to be dead!

            Gabriel approached Castiel and knelt down in front of him. Gabriel put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezed.

            “Hey,” Gabriel said, bringing his hand up to Castiel’s face. He brushed away a tear Castiel didn’t know was falling, and his body was overcome with violent, sobbing tremors. “Hey, Cassie, don’t cry. What happened? What’s gotten into you?”

            Castiel couldn’t speak, the words clogged in his throat. Gabriel put his forehead to Castiel’s and he opened his mind.

            Castiel was almost knocked by the intrusion. Gabriel’s form wrapped himself around Castiel’s, and oh…it had been so long, so long, since Castiel had connected with another angel like this. He craved it, then; he hadn’t realized how he missed this connection between his siblings, and he let Gabriel wrap his whole form around Castiel’s. Gabriel’s mind brushed gently against Castiel’s, so soft it was barely there and then Castiel couldn’t contain himself.

            He broke down in sobs.

            “I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel,” Castiel said in between his gasping sobs. “I don’t want to do this anymore!”

            “Shh,” Gabriel said. “It’s okay, baby bro. I’ve got you.”

            “Where are we, Gabriel? How am I not dead?”

            Castiel had eviscerated himself with his own blade. His hand had been soaked on his blood, and his grace was too weak to recover from a wound that grave.

            “Well, you’re not _not_ dead. Not quite alive, either.”

            Castiel stared up at Gabriel in confusion.

            “You’re in the In-Between, bro. I’m your guide, or something. Now, you’ve got a choice to make. You can go back, or you can go forward.”

            “Forward,” Castiel spat. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Concern was etched into the lines of his face.

            “You sure you don’t want to at least think about it? For a minute?”

            Castiel shook his head. “No, no. I want to go forward! I am done, Gabriel. There is nothing left for me back there.”

            Gabriel’s hands on his shoulder were the only thing keeping Castiel upright.

            “Nothing? What about Dumber and Even Dumber?”

            Castiel shook his head again, and looked down at the white ground beneath him. “They don’t need me,” he whispered. “Everything would be better if they never even met me.”

            “You don’t mean that,” Gabriel said. Castiel was thrown back by the seriousness in Gabriel’s voice. Gabriel was never serious. Everything was a joke to him, any task could be made into a game. He couldn’t recall Gabriel ever being serious or sincere.

            “It’s true,” Castiel said, fighting against the shivers that consumed his whole form. “I’ve ruined everything for them.”

            Gabriel was silent for a long, moment. Every microsecond, Castiel was aware of Gabriel’s surgical stare dissecting him. Then, “Holy shit. You really believe that.”

            “It’s the truth,” Castiel said, defeated.

            Gabriel shook his head. “Baby bro, you’ve got it all wrong. You couldn’t be any more wrong. Those two knuckleheads would be dead ten times over if it weren’t for you. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

            Castiel shook his head.

            “No, no Gabriel, please. I just want it to be over. I am so tired, and so done. If you’re really my guide, take me—please.”

            Gabriel shook his head. “Just come on one last journey with me. One last one, then, if you still want to go forward, I’ll take you there, no arguments. But this is the biggest decision of your life, and I think you’re missing some pretty important facts.”

            “You’re so cruel,” Castiel choked out. Why couldn’t Gabriel understand? He was _done._

            “Maybe,” Gabriel said. “But, so are those Winchester asshats for making you think like this. But, Cassie—just cause they say some things, doesn’t mean they feel that way. Face it, bro, those boys are so emotionally constipated shit’s coming out their ears. You really think their lives would be better if you hadn’t ever met them?”

            “I know it,” Castiel said.

            “Then let’s see if that’s true.”

            Gabriel put both hands tightly on Castiel’s shoulders, and before Castiel could protest, he and Gabriel were flung through  the ether, and then they landed harshly. Castiel tilted to the side and would have fallen to the ground had Gabriel not intervened and supported him.

            “Gabriel!” Castiel cried. “What have you done?”

            “I’m showing you what would happen if you and the Winchester boys had never met. No, shh. It’s about to get started.”

.

.

.

 

                                                                       

 

            Castiel knew where he was immediately. It was the barn where he and Dean first met. He recognized the sloppy, erroneous sigils Dean and Bobby had painted on the walls, the devil’s trap of straw on the ground.

            Dean and Bobby were on the far end, loading up their weapons.

            “Don’t worry,” Gabriel said. “They can’t see us.”

            “Gabriel, please,” Castiel pleaded. “This is unnecessary.” He knew the Winchesters were better off having never met him; he didn’t want to see the confirmation paraded in front of him.

            “Shut up, and watch.”

            The barn began to tremble, dust falling from the rafters.

            “Get ready!” Dean cried, cocking his gun and aiming it at the front door. Bobby stood to Dean’s side with his crossbow, and then the barn door blew open, wind and rain sweeping in. The lights exploded and fell to the ground, and a lone, tall figure stalked into the barn as Dean and Bobby shot their weapons simultaneously.

            Castiel frowned in confusion.

            It was Uriel storming into the barn, unfazed as bullets tore into his shoulders, and arrows sailed past his head.

            Castiel watched as Dean and Bobby grew fearful when their efforts failed, stepping away as Uriel came ever closer.

            “Get back!” Dean cried, pulling on the trigger again. The shotgun shell tore through Uriel’s suit jacket, but he continued forward, the scowl on his face growing deeper with every step.

            Uriel came to Bobby.

            “Get away from him!” Dean cried, pulling on the trigger again, but the gun clicked. He was out of bullets.

            Uriel touched Bobby’s forehead. Bobby’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell to the ground motionless.

            “Dean Winchester,” Uriel said, before he turned around. “We need to talk.”

            Dean’s eyes flickered between Bobby and Uriel—everything about Dean’s posture screamed terror, and something in Castiel ached to go to him and erase that fear.

            “Your friend is fine,” Uriel said.

            “What are you?” Dean said, eyes wide and pupils blown. He white-knuckled the shotgun. His arms trembled.

            “My name is Uriel. I am an angel of the Lord.”  
            Dean shook his head and backed up. “Not possible. Angels aren’t real.”

            Uriel frowned and cocked his head. Castiel’s heart seized in his chest. He knew that look on Uriel—he’d been on the receiving end of it many times himself throughout the millennia he and Uriel and worked together.

            “Really?” Uriel said, huffing. He raised a hand and blue light of his grace glowed from his fingertips. It shot from his fingertips light bolts of lightning and up to the ceiling, where dust fell like snow.

            Uriel didn’t his show his wings, though.

            Instead, he forced the barn to tremble, burned his eyes and limbs blue. And while he didn’t show his wings, a shadow did cast behind him that arched all the way up the wall and over the roof that didn’t match the vessel Uriel had taken. The shadow was taller, slimmer, with limbs that twisted in inhumane ways, and four heads on the neck.

            Dean’s eyes were wide, face paled. His eyes kept bouncing back and forth from the shadow on the wall to Uriel.

            “I’m the one who pulled you from the Pit,” Uriel said.

            “Thanks for that,” Dean said sarcastically. “But, why would an angel pull me from Hell?”

            Uriel smiled. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out. Come, Dean Winchester. We have work to do.”

            “Like hell am I working with you. You burned that poor woman’s eyes out!”

            Uriel spun hot on his heels and then his hand was wrapped around Dean’s throat, Dean pinned to the wall. The shotgun fell from his grip and slammed to the ground, shooting off a blank that only narrowly missed hitting Dean’s cheek.

            “Dean!” Castiel cried. He moved to go to Dean, but Gabriel’s hand was on his shoulder instantly, holding him back.

            “Won’t do you any good, little bro,” Gabriel said. “We’re not really here.”

            Castiel swallowed, unhappy with the predicament, and resigned to watch what Uriel would do.

            “I did warn her,” Uriel said, mock sorrow lacing his voice. “I told her that she would not be allowed to set sight upon my true form. It’s not my fault she didn’t listen.”

            Dean coughed, limbs kicking against the wood of the barn wall.

            Uriel sighed and dropped Dean. Dean’s hand went to his throat and he gasped for air.

“Get up,” Uriel said. “We have no time to squabble. There is much work to be done.”

Dean wheezed. “What sort of work?”

“The Apocalypse, of course.”

            The image began to fade away, like a ripple in water. Gabriel’s strong hand was on Castiel’s shoulder once more, and he was pulled through the ether.

.

.

 

                                                           

 

            _Cas, if you’ve got your ears on, call me._

            Dean winced at the prayer and gritted his teeth together. He smacked his head against the window. “Stupid, stupid,” he muttered. Like _that_ was going to get Cas’s attention. If Castiel could hear his prayers, he’d probably be wishing he could shut them off right about now. Call me? That was the best Dean had? After all the horrible stuff Dean said to him?

            _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of those things I said yesterday. I was angry._

            That one wasn’t any better. Since when was being angry an excuse? It wasn’t like someone had put a gun to his head and forced him to say those things. He may have been angry, but he chose to say those awful, despicable things. Dean swallowed thickly.

            _Please, buddy. I’ve got a bad feeling. Let me know you’re okay._

He couldn’t even begin to explain it. It felt like claws were grasping at his heart, their long talons sinking into the soft flesh of muscle. Each heartbeat seemed like a war, and Dean often had to remind himself to breathe.

            He loved being in the Impala—it was the one place on Earth he was most comfortable, even more than the bunker. But suddenly, Baby was too small. And too slow. Even with Sam pushing the pedal to the floor, it wasn’t going fast enough, and Dean was hyper aware that every second might be putting another foot between them and Cas.

            Every few moments, Sam’s eyes would slide from the road to Dean, and it felt like tiny needles against Dean’s skin.

            Two hours of the awkward, heavy silence, Sam reached forward and turned on the radio. It picked up a local news station. It ran through the usual schedule: weather reports—more snow and sleet—the traffic report, pick-me-ups, and then.

            And then.

            “In other news,” the female reporter said, her voice far too chipper for Dean’s liking. “City officials are trying to locate the family of a man found this morning in the woods right outside the city of Grand Island.”

            Dean stared at the radio like it could bite him.

            “The man was found by a man and his dog who were hiking in the woods. The man was severely wounded and taken to the local hospital.”

            Dean dug his nails into the meat of his thighs. Sam, too, was drawing his eyes away from the road to the radio more often than he should have.

            “The man is stable, but remains in critical condition. Doctors have described the man as being white, in his mid-thirties to early forties, approximately six feet tall with dark hair. Anyone with information regarding the man is asked to call the hospital—“

            Dean slammed his hand against the power button on the radio. He and Sam continued to drive in silence for one, long single moment.

            “How far are we from Grand Island?” Dean said eventually.

            “’Bout ten minutes,” Sam said.

            Dean’s mind raced. Critical condition….

            “Dean, breathe,” Sam said, reaching across with one arm and putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean hadn’t realized he was hyperventilating until Sam had done that and he bit his lip and tried to steady his inhalations.

            “We know where he is now,” Sam said. “We can find him, and fix this.”

            Dean didn’t think he could agree. Cas was in a hospital---he was hurt, and badly too, if critical condition meant anything.

            What happened? Did angels find Cas? Or Crowley? Maybe he wasn’t as all right as he appeared to be—housing Lucifer and going one on one with the Darkness had to have beat him up, and maybe there was a delayed reaction?

            “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Dean said, rubbing at his mouth.

            “Do I need to pull over?”

            Dean shook his head. He needed to man up, that’s what he needed. Cas was hurt because of him. He left the sanctity of the bunker, the safest place in North America, because of what Dean said. Pulling over would only delay their arrival at to the hospital, and Dean needed to be there now.

            Sam cracked a window anyway, the crank of the manual handle making Dean’s teeth ache. The icy air slipping in. It nipped at Dean’s scalp, and did little to ease his nausea, but he made no comment, or move to roll the window back up. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to huddle into the corner of the seat and door, teeth chattering.

            _Hold on, Cas,_ Dean prayed. _Hold on, we’re coming for you._

.

.

            The hospital parking lot was jammed pack and it took Sam three attempts of circling around the lot before he managed to secure a spot, cutting off an angry soccer mom in a minivan to do so. She slammed on her horn and flipped the bird, but Sam only rolled his eyes and put the car in park.

            “Okay,” Sam said. “We got a story figured out?”

            Dean did a double take. “What story? He’s our family, we’re here to see him.”

            Sam huffed. “You know it’s not going to be that simple. They’re going to want to see ID. And if they have Cas as a John Doe, he must not have had any on him. We’re going to need to find some for him that will match ones we have—“

            “You’re overthinking this,” Dean said, opening the door.

            “You’re not thinking at all,” Sam called after him. “We can’t rush into this headfirst.”

            “Why not? Hasn’t ever failed us before.”

            Dean slammed his car door behind him before Sam could respond and made his way to the building. It had to be at least twelve stories tall, and it loomed over Dean like a massive enemy. The winter weather had concealed the sun, making the building even more gloomy.

             Dean treated the walk from the car to the front door the same way he treated every hunt. He forced an arrogance he didn’t have, kept his head held high, and eyes alert for any possible threat. Elderly couples hobbled out with walkers and canes, expecting mothers walked in, soft smiles casting a glow on their entire faces; overworked nurses sat outside, backs braced against the brick wall behind them, with either a phone or a cigarette in their hands.

            “Dean!” Sam rushed towards Dean, out of breath.

            “You getting old, Sam?” Dean said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket. He balled his hands into tight fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.

            “C’mon, Dean, please. I’m asking you, just this once—don’t let your emotions get the better of you. You scream, make a scene, they’ll call security on us and we won’t get to see Cas.”

            “Not gonna happen,” Dean said, walking through the automatic doors. He was assaulted with the stench of antiseptic and bleach and his nose scrunched in disgust. “Nothing’s gonna stop me from seeing Cas.”

            “Just—“

            “What the hell do you want from me Sam?” Dean screamed, spinning around on his heels to face his brother. Sam’s face was wind whipped red and his hair was disarray.

            “Let me do the talking,” Sam said seriously. There was that edge of impatience to his voice that Dean knew well-enough. Dean stared at his brother, but Sam only returned the glare with full force.

            “Fine,” Dean said. “But if they won’t let us see him, I’m gonna take things into my own hands.”

            “It won’t get to that point,” Sam said. He walked past Dean, their shoulders brushing. “Let’s find the ICU.”

            Dean turned to follow Sam. “He’s gonna be in the ICU?”

            “He’s a John Doe in critical condition. Where else would he be?”

            Dean licked his chapping lips. He hadn’t really considered where Cas might be in the hospital. He knew what the reporter on the radio said. But the ICU….people died in the ICU.

            Sam found a directory posted on a wall, and thankfully, the ICU was on the first floor. Dean was grateful, because he didn’t think he could stand to be stuck in an elevator packed full of strangers, either sick, or visiting sick family, and overall coming off as lonely and pathetic.

            Dean and Sam would be the pathetic ones, no different than any of the other poor shmucks that were trapped in this hellhole.

            The ICU was off-guarded from the rest of the hospital. When they walked through the doors, it was like they’d gone into a completely different building. The décor was bland and nonexistent. The stench of antiseptic was even more powerful, and instead of normal, private doors, the rooms had panels of glass, allowing someone to look into every room. Dean kept an eye out for Cas as they walked past the different windows to the information desk. He didn’t see Cas, but it was hard to see any of the patients. Each poor bastard was hooked up to a plethora of different machines, tubes going down their throats, and up their noses; tubes that went into their arms, and tubes that disappeared under blankets towards the waist.

            Cas was one of these poor bastards, tied up to all these different tubes.

            Finally, they made it to the information desk. It was evening time now, and Dean couldn’t see any visitors. Dean’s stomach hurt.

            Sam leaned over the desk and gave his best smile to the middle aged nurse wearing a set of scrubs with smiling puppies giving one another band-aids. It clashed with the scowl she wore on her face that Dean was forced to assume was permanent, given by lines around her lips.

            “Excuse me?” Sam said. His voice was soft and gentle, the same voice he used when he interrogated victims or their families.

            The nurse looked up from her hooded eyes. “Yes?” she said impatiently.

            “Hi,” Sam said. “Uh, I’m Sam, and this is Dean.” Sam pointed towards Dean over his shoulder. “Listen, we heard about the John Doe you got this morning. We think he’s our friend.”    

            Suddenly, the irritated impatience melted off her face.

            Dean wished it would’ve come back. Irritated impatience was better than the look of sympathy that spread across her face. She looked wounded and upset. She cleared her throat.

            “Can you describe the patient for me?” she said.

            Sam listed off Cas’s description, while Dean hung back in the corner.

            “He left home yesterday morning, and never came back. We were really worried, and then we heard the radio…”

            The nurse nodded and grabbed a chart from behind her desk.

            “Come with me,” she said, holding the chart close to her chest. Sam gave Dean a look over his shoulder. Dean followed behind, anxiety weighing down in his stomach like a rock. The nurse kept walking, and walking. She  turned a corner and they kept walking. Dean’s worry worsened with every step.

            She finally stopped at a door very far away from the information desk. On the other side of her was a window similar to the ones the other rooms had. Dean tried to peek inside, but he couldn’t see Cas.

            The nurse turned around, back facing the door, chart against her chest.

            “Before you go in, you should know. His condition is currently stable, but he’s still critical. He was brought in early this morning with a severe wound to his abdomen. His mesenteric artery—the major artery in the stomach—had been severed, and there was horrific damage to his lower intestines.”

            With every word she spoke, Dean’s heart pounded faster and harder inside his ribcage.

            “Honestly, he shouldn’t be alive. At the very least, he should be brain-dead.”

            “But?” Sam said slowly.

            The nurse sighed. “Let me show you.”

            She opened the door and the brothers followed her in.

            Dean thought he might cry when he saw the state of Cas in the hospital bed. He was in a flimsy gown, with wires coming from every direction. An IV bag with a blood transfusion hung above his head and flowed into one arm; in his other arm was another IV connected a bag of fluids. He was hooked up to a ventilator that pumped his chest up and down every five seconds, making an obnoxious clicking noise each time.

            His hair was messed up, pressed up against the pillow into a mockery of the way Cas used to wear it, before he really began to start acclimating to humanity.

            Dean saw the heating pads resting on Cas’s legs and hands, and he could only imagine the horrendous bandage wrapped around his stomach that was hidden beneath the stupid, ugly gown.

            He had seen Cas all sorts of banged up throughout the years. It wasn’t even the first time he’d seen Cas comatose for fuck’s sake.

            But it was the first time Cas looked so small, swallowed up by all the tubes and blankets, drowned in the incessant clicking and beeping noises.

            Dean walked up to the side of the bed.

            “Don’t touch him,” the nurse warned.

            Dean swallowed and put his hand on the railing, resisting every urge to pat down Cas’s hair, or to wrap his hand around Cas’s.

            There was a beeping right above Dean’s head.

            Dean looked up and saw a screen. It had a green light that bounced up and down, drawing little mountains on the monitor. His eyes found a small set of wires and trailed down to where they head, pressed against Cas’s head.

            “That’s his brain activity,” the nurse said. Dean watched the tiny line as it made its way up and down and across the monitor.

            “As you can see, it’s very high.”

            “Is he dreaming?” Sam asked.

            “Possibly. But the type of activity we’re seeing here is consistent with two people talking.”

            Dean wondered what Castiel might be dreaming of. He didn’t know angels could dream.

            But then again, Castiel wasn’t much of an angel anymore; and if he was hurt enough that he needed surgery, and medicines, and a machine to breathe for him, then his grace had to be on the blitz again, if it was even still there.

            Dean swallowed and wondered. Was Cas human? Had the altercation with the Darkness and Lucifer destroyed his grace and made him human?

            Dean hadn’t even asked. Hadn’t bothered to assess Cas’s condition. He’d just gone for the attack, without thinking.

            The nurse stepped closer to Dean. She cleared her throat.

            “You need to know,” she said softly. Her voice now did not at all match the voice she had used on Sam earlier, when they introduced themselves. Dean hated her. He didn’t want her pity. “We can’t confirm anything until he wakes up and we can get a statement, but the surgeons have examined him, and…”

            “What is it?” Dean said, voice rough from lack of good sleep and worry. He never took his eyes off Cas. He worried that if he took his eyes off Cas, Cas would vanish again. As long as Dean kept watching over Cas, Cas couldn’t disappear. Cas would be okay.

            “With the angle and depth of his wound, the doctors have apt reason to believe it was  self-inflicted.”

            Sam gasped behind him. Dean wrapped his hand around the bar of the bed, staring at Cas, eyes going to his stomach to search for the wound that was hidden underneath the stupid, ugly gown. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see anything past Castiel lying there, not moving, not even breathing on his damn own, with the word _self-inflicted_ echoing inside his head.

            _I’m afraid I might kill myself_ , Cas tells him in a shamed whisper years ago.

            Dean’s knees gave out. They buckled and failed, and Dean crashed to the floor.

            “Dean!” Sam cried at the same time the nurse called “Sir!”

            Dean hit the ground hard, a shock going through his bones, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter what sort of pain he was in, not when the terrible words rattled inside his head and wouldn’t leave.

            His chest heaved, and he laid there on the hospital floor, sobbing.

.

.

.

                                                           

                                                          

 

            Castiel was dropped unceremoniously back into the In-Between. He spun around, twisting each way, only to see nothing but white in every direction. Above, below, as far as he could see.

            “Dean!” he called, his echo hitting him in the face.

            Gabriel appeared in front of him, and put his hands firmly on Castiel’s shoulders. “Woah, calm down, Cas.”

            “Gabriel, what was that?”

            “That was what would’ve happened if you and Even Dumber hadn’t met.”

            Castiel stared at Gabriel. He searched Gabriel’s grace for any hint of deception, but he couldn’t find any. Castiel thought of his own meeting with Dean, and the similarities it held with the visage he just witnessed. And the differences. Uriel’s cruelty, his indifference, stung at Castiel’s grace. His own meeting with Dean had its ups and downs, but Castiel hadn’t been needlessly cruel. He didn’t resort to violence to get what he wanted.

            Castiel swallowed.

            “You really think their lives would’ve been better if they hadn’t met you? What you just saw—that’s the tip of the iceberg. It gets worse.”

            Castiel huffed. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing Uriel might’ve done could match up to what I have done.”

            Gabriel rolled his eyes dramatically. “Sheesh, kid, knock it off would ya? This whole ‘woe is me’ shit doesn’t suit you. But, if you need another lesson, I am more than happy to help.”

            Before Castiel could protest, Gabriel pressed his finger to Castiel’s forehead, and they were once again pulled through the ether.

 

.

.

            Castiel knew where they were as soon as they landed.

            “This is your specialty, isn’t it?” Uriel said, his malicious grin spreading across his entire face.

            Dean’s eyes glanced back to the door behind him. His body was shaking in terror.

            “I can’t do this,” Dean said. “No, why do I have to do this? You’re the angel. He’s the demon. Isn’t that _your_ specialty?”

            Uriel scoffed. “I prefer the irony of you doing it. The student becoming the master, ying and yang. That sort of artistic integrity.”

            Dean shook his head. His face was schooled into an expression of anger, teeth clenched, fists balled, muscles taut, but Castiel recognized it for what it was---a simple farce. Dean was terrified. The colors of his soul transformed into deep purples, with bright flashes of yellow throughout. Dean was terrified, and he was pretending he wasn’t.

            “No way,” Dean said through gritted teeth. “I can’t do that again.” He backed away slowly from Uriel, into the door that held Alistair behind it.

            Castiel’s heart thrummed inside his chest. Anger pooled hot through his veins. He wanted to step forward and slam Uriel against the wall, and then skewer his blade through Uriel’s gut. How _dare_ Uriel frighten Dean?

            Then Castiel had to swallow and release a slow, tense breath. This hadn’t gone much different from his own world—though Castiel hadn’t wanted Dean to participate in this task. He knew better than any of the other angels the pain and horrors Dean had seen at Alistair’s hand; the tortures Dean had suffered under it; the ones he performed with Alistair’s guidance.

            He had been tasked with asking this of Dean for that reason. Because even back then, Dean had trusted Castiel more than any of the other angels.

            And Castiel had betrayed that trust.

            Gabriel’s stance beside him straightened. Gabriel’s grace radiated towards Castiel. It was warm and gentle, like the touch of sunlight on a summer day.

            Castiel’s body still trembled like a leaf in a storm, though. He couldn’t peel his eyes away from the scene, couldn’t calm the anxiety of anticipation in what would happen next.  This had to differ from the way it went in his world. Gabriel wouldn’t show it to him otherwise.

            “You seem to think you have a choice in the matter,” Uriel said, the grin slipping from his face. A frown of angry impatience replaced it, and he cocked his head, twitched his fingers. The lights in the room dimmed with a _whirring_ sound, just tiny sparks shooting from the copper filaments.

            Uriel stepped forward.

            The lights came back on, brighter than before, a high pitched whining sound filling the room.

            “You see, Dean, here’s how this is going to go. You are going to enter that room. You are going to use your knowledge from your time in the Pit to get as much information about the seals and Lucifer as you can. If you don’t, the wrath of Heaven will come down on your brother’s head.”

            Castiel’s heart dropped into his stomach like a rock.

            Dean was very quiet for a long moment. His eyes grew wide initially, face slackened in horror; then Dean schooled it back into his stoic expression and he walked towards Uriel, purpose in his step.

            “You come near my brother,” Dean growled between his teeth, jabbing his finger into Uriel’s chest. “I’ll kill you.”

            Uriel chuckled. “I assure you, Dean. No man can kill me. But I can kill Sam with a flick of my wrist. Is that a risk you want to take?”

            Dean swallowed. The colors of his soul had taken on a red undertone, hidden beneath the ever deepening purple. They came out in bright flares like sun spots, but they were always quickly consumed by the purple colors.

            Dean stepped back, still facing Uriel until his back was once more braced against the steel door that separated him from Alistair. He swallowed thickly. He reached behind him and wrapped his hand around the door handle.

            “Aren’t you going to come in?” Dean asked, his voice quiet and small and child-like.

            Uriel’s eyes widened in offense. “Me? Are you insane, boy? Heavens no! He could kill me.”

            Purple washed over Dean’s soul like a tidal wave, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

            Uriel smiled again, two rows of too bright teeth contrasting with the dirty wall behind him.

            “Remember what he’s taught you, Dean,” Uriel called, as Dean turned the doorknob and backed into the room.

            The door slammed in front of him, clanging and echoing throughout the tiny chamber. Dean flinched at the sound, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

            Dean faced the steel door, heart pounding against his ribcage. He was very cold.

            “Hello, Dean,” Alistair called from his bindings.

            “No,” Castiel said.

            The room looked just like it had in his world, with Alistair hanging from the pentagram, the table of torture devices just outside his reach from the devil’s trap.

            Dean’s shoulders shuddered but he turned around, head high, faking an arrogance he didn’t have.

            “It’s been so long,” Alistair crooned.

            Dean ignored him and examined his instruments.

            Castiel could only remember how this had gone in his world and he walked towards Alistair and Dean.

            “It’s no use, bro,” Gabriel said. “They can’t see you.”

            Castiel ignored him and searched around the devil’s trap as Dean began to make his first cuts in Alistair’s skin. Alistair screamed, head thrown back against the pentagram. The ceilings trembled.

            Castiel found it. The same leaky pipe, dripping onto the same edge of the devil’s trap as it had in his world.

            Castiel’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed inside his chest. He looked up to see Dean pouring salt into Alistair’s wounds, asking over and over again “Who’s killing the angels?”

            It stung at Castiel’s heart to hear Dean ask that question. He looked towards the metal door, where Uriel stood on the other side. It hurt to be reminded of Uriel’s betrayal. He had fought by Uriel’s side for millennia, and never, never would Castiel had assumed Uriel to be the one turning on his own kind.

            It continued the same way it did in his world, with Alistair refusing to answer and Dean getting more violent with his procedures.

            And the tiny pipe continued to drip, and drip, and drip, chipping away little by little at the paint of the devil’s trap. Castiel felt frozen in place, forced to watch as Dean continued unaware of the danger he was in. Castiel’s eyes kept slipping from Dean to the door. He waited for Uriel to burst through the door and save Dean from the inevitable attack.

            But he never came.

            _Drip. Drip. Drip._

            Dean stuck the needle full of holy salt water into Alistair’s neck and pushed on the plunger. Alistair screamed, but his eyes remained open, staring at the spot the leaky pipe was decaying.

            Castiel looked at it too.

            It all happened in an instant.

            “No!” Castiel cried, as Alistair lunged for Dean, slamming him against the concrete ground. There was a sickening crack that echoed throughout the cramped room, and then Dean was very still, and Alistair was still pinned above him, laughing. Blood dribbled down Alistair’s chin, onto Dean’s neck.

            “No!” Castiel tried to wrench Alistair off of Dean, but his hand just slipped through.

            “We’re not really here,” Gabriel reminded him. “You can’t do anything!”

            Castiel looked up to the metal door. Where was Uriel? Why hadn’t Uriel come in yet? Or Sam? Where were they?

            Castiel’s body locked up—he couldn’t move anything. And then he was being flown away once more, back into the ether.

.

.

            He landed less than gracefully back in the In-Between.

            “We have to go back!” Castiel screamed as soon as Gabriel came into view.

            “Did you not just hear what I said?” Gabriel said impatiently. “You’re just supposed to witness these scenes, not play a part in them. You’ve already done that.”

            “But Dean—“

            “Is fine. None of that happened, Cas. It’s only what might have happened. How events would have changed had you not been there—had they not known you.”

            The knowledge did little to settle the fire in Castiel’s nerves. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind, couldn’t unhear the noise Dean’s skull made against the concrete.

            “Still think the Winchesters would’ve been better if they hadn’t met you?”

            “Those things still happened when I was there,” Castiel whispered. Worse, perhaps; he’d been the one to initiate them. He hadn’t wanted Dean to torture Alistair—far from it, actually. He’d told Dean as much.

            But he’d done nothing to stop it. He still saw Dean go through that door and stood on the other side, like a coward, until it was too late and Dean had nearly died. Castiel was still very responsible for the injuries Dean had suffered at that time. And he didn’t heal Dean, when it would’ve been at no expense to him to do so, because he was scared of his superiors finding out. So he continued to let Dean suffer, while he looked after his own ass.

            “Holy shit,” Gabriel said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

            Castiel’s eyes burned. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to accomplish here,” he said. “You’ve said it yourself—the events you’re parading around are only ‘what ifs’. What about what actually happened? And the part I played in it? In the real world, I sent Dean into that room. In the real world, I sat by his side in a hospital bed, instead of healing him, because I was afraid of what would happen to me if they found out I disobeyed. Those things actually happened, Gabriel. They cannot be undone.”

            Castiel closed his eyes. His grace flared warm for a mere second, before it burned cold once more, like a candle being snuffed out.

            “I think I’ve seen enough,” Castiel said. “I want to go forward now.”

            He wanted to go into the nothingness of death. He wanted to leave behind the guilt, and the anger, and the rage he held at himself in his bones. He wanted to forget Dean’s fists against his face, Dean yelling at him, Dean hating him.

            There was nothing for him back on Earth.

            “Earth is still spinning because of you,” Gabriel yelled. The words got lost in the vastness of the In-Between. They didn’t echo—the opposite instead. It was like the words were vacuumed away.

            Castiel scoffed. Gabriel didn’t understand. Castiel had nearly destroyed the Earth several times.

            “Do I gotta show you that one too?” Gabriel raised his hand, finger pointed and headed for Castiel’s head. Castiel batted it away and flinched.

            “No. I don’t want to see anymore. I want to go. You said I could go.”

            “I said you could make the decision after you’ve seen the difference you’ve made. You already see it, don’t you? If you hadn’t been there, Deanarino would’ve been stuck with Uriel as his angel guide—and that dude’s a grade A dick.”

            Dicks with wings, Dean had called them. At one time, that had referred to Castiel as well.

            “They couldn’t have stopped Lucifer without you.”

            Castiel laughed bitterly. He shook his head, and couldn’t even find the words to prove Gabriel wrong. The brothers never needed his help. Ambriel had said it as well as anyone could have. Castiel helped, but he wasn’t a hero.

            “That’s not true, Cas,” Gabriel said sadly.

            Castiel gritted his teeth and scowled. “Stop reading my mind!”

            Gabriel shrugged. “It’s not my fault you think so loud. But it’s not true. Those Winchester boys would be two piles of salt if it weren’t for you, and so would the world—don’t argue with me! Just watch!”

            And then Gabriel’s hand was against Castiel’s forehead, his grace flooding through Castiel’s body, and they were flying again.

.

.

.

 

            Castiel did not recognize where he landed. He looked around in all directions, but as far as he could see, there was nothing but a barren landscape. He thought for a moment he and Gabriel were still stuck in the In-Between; but there was no white enclosing in around them. Instead, the ground was marred with a putrid, black coating. Castiel looked up and the sky was blood red. The air smelled of rotting eggs.

            “Where are we?” Castiel asked, when Gabriel came to stand beside him.

            “Earth.”

            Castiel stared at his brother, confusion marring his brow. He looked back to the landscape. How could this be Earth? Earth was vibrant, exploding with colors of greens and blues, pinks and yellows; flora as far as the eye could see, with animal sounds traveling for miles. Earth was alive.

            This place looked very dead. 

            “I know, right?” Gabriel said to Castiel’s unasked question. “This is Earth if the showdown between Mike and Lucy went like it was supposed to.”

            Castiel swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “But that’s impossible,” Castiel said. “Sam and Dean would’ve stopped it, like they did in our world.”

            Gabriel made a humming sound. “Yeah, but those pinheads had something the pinheads from this world didn’t.” Gabriel snapped his fingers and the entire scene changed. Castiel saw himself, with Bobby behind him. He saw Dean, and Sam possessed by Lucifer, with Michael in Adam Milligan. It was Stull Cemetery.

            “Hey, assbutt!” the other Castiel said, throwing a flaming bottle. It caught on Michael. Michael exploded in flames and vanished, leaving behind just a trail of smoke.

            Castiel wondered how he ever could have once been that confident, that sure of his actions. The Castiel he observed held no sorrow in his bones. No guilt weighed on his shoulders. His wings were intact.

            Castiel felt like he was looking at a stranger instead of himself.

            “He’ll be back,” the other Castiel said. “And he’ll be mad. But you’ve got your five minutes.”

            Gabriel snapped his fingers again and the scene paused.

            “See that? See what you did there? You just flambéed Michael!”

            Castiel swallowed.

            “Michael and Lucifer were about to go down, and you got right in the middle of it, and hit pause. You gave Dean five minutes to try and reach to Sam. You died to give him those five minutes. Those five minutes made all the difference. Those five minutes saved the world! Ergo, you saved the world.”

            “Maybe I did once,” Castiel said. He still stared at the past him. The past him, whose wings were still intact and functioning, wings that didn’t ache constantly. The past him’s grace was bright and powerful, shining even from here. “But you seem to be omitting the disasters that have occurred by my hand since this incident.”

            “Are you talking about the whole thing with Raphael? We’d be right back here.”

            The landscape vanished, and they were back in the original one, with the red sky and black ground. “Right back to the world being destroyed, Apocalypse 2.0 style. You did what you had to do, Cas.”

            “I betrayed Dean’s trust. I hurt Sam. I didn’t bring back his soul. I broke his wall.”

            “You asked for his help. He told you no. They were trying to stop you from saving the world. You did what you had to do. You didn’t betray their trust—they betrayed yours.”

            “I let the Leviathans loose—“

            “You didn’t know—“

            “And that is supposed to excuse my actions?” Castiel did not yell, but his voice dropped, and he brought forth a rough, silencing sternness. Gabriel stared at him with wide eyes for a moment.

            He put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel prepared for the pull of flight, but it never came.

            “Look at me,” Gabriel commanded, and Castiel found himself instinctively obeying. “You did the best you could in a horrible situation. You were fighting a war. In war, you have to make crappy decisions sometimes. You were leading a war all on your own, and still helping Twiddledee and Twiddledumb on the side. You had more responsibility on your shoulders than anyone ever should have. Sam’s soul? You didn’t know. You raised Sam from the Pit—Dean should’ve been groveling at your feet in gratitude. You saved the world all on your own. Be proud.”

            Castiel couldn’t, though. All the anger that radiated between him and Dean began here, with the choices Castiel made during this war. Ever since the war with Raphael, there had been a rift between him and Dean, one Castiel could never hope to heal. Maybe Castiel had won the war, but at what cost? The cost of his and Dean’s friendship, Dean’s trust.

            “Besides,” Gabriel said, shrugging his shoulders dramatically. “Whatever mistakes you did or didn’t make…you’ve paid all that over at least ten times by now. Dean may not be good with words, but he cares. Even after all that shit happened.”

            Castiel blinked. “Dean told me I did the best I could in a horrible situation—“

            “Because you did!”

            “But he was only saying that to appease me. He thought I could fix Sam’s wall—“

            “Which you did too, the best you could with the resources you had—“

            “That was the only reason Dean even sought me out.”

            Gabriel looked at Castiel sadly. Castiel shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. It felt like Gabriel was dissecting him with only his eyes. Gabriel was seeing with his true eyes, Castiel’s true form, and Castiel shuddered in shame. Gabriel could see how tattered Castiel’s grace was, how deformed his wings had grown, the bends in his halo. Castiel was not an angel, not anymore. Never again.

            “What did they do to you?” Gabriel said. There was a note of agony in his voice Castiel had never heard from Gabriel. Pity.

            Castiel sneered and stepped back. “I don’t need your _pity_. Stop it. Stop looking at me like that!”

            “No, really,” Gabriel said, stepping forward, advancing towards Castiel. “What did those bozos do to you? The Cas I knew was a stubborn asshole who did what needed to be done. He didn’t let his mistakes sink him.”

            “The Castiel you knew is dead.”

            Gabriel huffed. “Yeah, I can see that. Question is, why? You’ve done so much good in the world, bro, you should be proud! Hell, you’ve followed Dad’s wishes more in these last ten years than any angel has since the dawn of creation!”

            “What does it matter what Father wants?” Castiel spat bitterly. He thought of every night he knelt beside a window and glanced up to the stars, prayers falling fast from his lips, in every language he could muster. He thought of pillaging every corner of the Universe, looking everywhere. Everywhere. Heaven, and Hell, and everywhere in between, only to be told that God didn’t care.

            And Castiel thought of praying for guidance every time he was lost, praying for direction, and never receiving a response. “He’s dead too,” Castiel whispered, the initial rage lost.

            Gabriel exhaled. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not even gonna go there,” Gabriel said. “But, you should know, after the Leviathan ordeal, Dean was a wreck.”

            “Of course he was a wreck. His brother was growing insane.”

            “Yeah, there was that. But he was also messed up by you dying. Don’t even open your mouth, I don’t want to hear any arguments. I just want you to shut up and watch this time. And no hero acts. Remember, we’re not really there. They won’t be able to hear you.”

            Gabriel reached for Castiel’s shoulder and they were moving once more.

.

.

.

                                                

 

            The nurse kicked them out of Cas’s room after going over the details of his condition.

            “Normally, we don’t even let visitors into the ICU rooms,” she explained as she ushered them out. “It breaks sanitation. Don’t tell the doctors I let you in, or it’ll be my ass on the line okay?”

            Dean was incoherent, eyes red and puffy, lungs shuddering in his chest. He couldn’t’ find the strength to speak.

            “It’s okay,” Sam said softly, but there was a hitch in his voice too. Sam was fighting against his own tears. “We understand. Thank you.”

            The nurse smiled softly at Sam. “Your friend is in good hands,” she said. “He’s got a great team looking after him—and if his condition continues to improve, they might be able to take him off critical condition. If that happens, he’ll be moved out of ICU and into a normal room. You’ll be able to stay with him then.”

            “Thanks,” Sam said again. “We really appreciate it.”

            Dean slinked over to a nearby chair and plopped down it. He bent his head over his knees and wrapped his arms around his head. Trembles ran down his spine, and the nurse’s words still echoed inside his head, bouncing around the walls of his brain.

            Part of him believed for a second that this was all a dream. This couldn’t be happening. Castiel was the toughest son of a bitch Dean knew. Most days he seemed untouchable.

            But Dean could still see Cas’s face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. Every time he blinked, he was forced to see how Cas’s expression fell and twisted into something sour, and devastated, when Dean unleashed his rage on him. When Dean played those few moments over in his head, he noticed things he didn’t when the scene was actually playing out. The animal like terror in Cas’s eyes as Dean threw down glasses and plates; the way he turned on even Sam, when Sam tried to talk him down. Castiel had tried to keep his face schooled into his classic warrior of God expression, but then Dean said _those_ words, and Dean may as well had thrown icy water on Cas’s head.

            Dean gasped for breath. Stop helping. That’s what he had told Cas. Those were the last words Cas heard him say, before Cas stalked out into the cold, marched nearly eighty miles, and found a place to die.

            What if someone hadn’t found Cas? Cas was alive now, barely—but he _was_ alive. Dean’s mouth grew dry at the thought that there could have been the chance that nobody would have found Cas, that he would have bled out and the snow would have covered his body, and no one would have found him and Dean would have never known.

            Sam put his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades.

            Dean inhaled slowly. The air was cold, and it stabbed at his lungs. He forced himself into a sitting position, his spine popping in protest. He rubbed his face with his hands, wiped away the snot on his sleeve.

            “I can’t believe this,” Sam said, as he began to rub tender circles into Dean’s back. Sam was barely keeping it together, Dean knew. “I never imagined Cas felt this way. What did Lucifer do to him?”

            “Not just Lucifer,” Dean mumbled before he realized what he was even saying.

            “What?”

            Dean groaned and cursed. But he was in it now. “It wasn’t just Lucifer,” he said, raising his head to meet Sam’s eyes. Now that the nurse was gone, Sam no longer kept his shoulders high. They were fallen, shaking, and Sam’s eyes glistened, tear streaks making their way down his face. “He told me a few years ago, after the whole….Leviathan stuff….after he came back from Purgatory….”

            Sam was quiet for a moment. When Dean didn’t continue, Sam pressed, “What did he tell you, Dean?”

            “Told me he wanted to kill himself.”

            There was a sudden intake of breath. Sam’s pupils expanded. His face was marred by the downward turn of his lips. The hand on Dean’s back stilled. Dean could just barely feel the scrape of Sam’s nails through his shirt.

            “What did you do?” Sam asked eventually, voice pitched low to keep from cracking.

            Dean laughed bitterly. “Nothing,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I mean, we were gonna talk about it….I thought…but you came in, and he jumped at the chance to change the subject and then…never mentioned it again. _I_ never brought it up again.”

            Dean’s throat felt like it was full of sandpaper. He coughed roughly, watched as doctors began to make their rounds, entering patient’s rooms, their faces unaffected as they went from room to room.

            When Dean’s coughing fit was over, he continued, “I figured he’d…figure it out on his own. Keep on keeping on, y’know? Like he always does. God, I’m such an asshole.” Dean buried his head back into his hands. He would cry some more, but he was all cried out. His face was sticky with tears, his nose and throat burned, and his body was still plagued by shivers. Dean glanced over his shoulder to see into the window of Cas’s room. He still couldn’t see Cas from this angle, but he could imagine it now. His friend, his friend that always seemed so untouchable, invincible, reliant on machines to keep him alive. More doctors began to come in, dressed in blue scrubs, with latex gloves and face masks, and paper coverings over their shoes entering and exiting.

            Cas was alive because of the man in the woods who found him, and the doctor who operated on him.

            He had almost died because of Dean. Cas had taken his own blade and stuck it deep in his gut in an attempt to take his own life. It wasn’t as sudden as Sam thought it to be; it had been a result of years and years of trauma and abuse…but the fact of the matter was that it was Dean’s final words to Cas that had been pivotal. The straw that broke the angel’s will to live.

            Sam sniffed and wiped at his eyes. He sat down in the chair beside Dean, and neither brother said anything for a long time.

Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed with them just sitting there in those uncomfortable chairs. It was long enough that he felt physically and emotionally drained. Long enough for his ass to go numb. He was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. He refused to allow himself to sleep. He didn’t deserve sleep.

            But after what seemed like an eternity, an older man with a salt and pepper beard wearing scrubs approached Sam and Dean.

            “You’re the family of my John Doe?” he asked.

            Dean’s throat was still dry and raw.

            “Yeah,” Sam said. “Uh, we’re his brothers.”

            The doctor smiled sadly. “Doctor Murray,” he said.

            Sam nodded and stuck out his hand for Doctor Murray to shake. “Thanks for taking care of him,” Sam said. He pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “Uh, the nurse told us some…Is he gonna be okay?”

            Doctor Murray sighed. He looked into the window. “Well, he’s made it through the first twenty-four hours. Forty-eight are generally the most vital. I gotta tell ya boys, your brother is already exceeding my expectations. An injury like that, plus being out in the cold for that long, he shouldn’t be alive. Your brother’s got some guardian angel.”

            Dean snorted.

            Doctor Murray eyed him suspiciously, but Sam broke in before he could comment—“His name is Cas,” Sam said. Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. What was Sam thinking, using Cas’s real name? Had Sam lost his mind? “What’s gonna happen now?”

            “I’m going to keep Cas in observation for at least another twenty-four hours, and then assess his condition from there. He’s already making tremendous strides. I’m hoping to take him off the ventilator by midday. That’s another vital step—once they’re able to breathe on their own, they’ve usually made it out of the woods. I must admit, though, there are some peculiarities about your brother.”

            “Like what?” Dean snapped, speaking for the first time. It was instinctual, and defensive. A habit he’d picked up throughout the years, whenever anyone commented on Cas being “odd”, “strange”, or, as that one bartender back on a hunt years ago put so eloquently, “the fucking weirdo”. Only he and Sam got to pick fun at Cas for being a fish out of water.

            “Well,” Doctor Murray said, far too patiently for Dean’s liking. “As I’m sure Nurse Melissa told you, he lost a lot of blood. With the amount he’s lost, we usually don’t expect the patient to survive—if they do, the patient is typically brain dead. Not Cas. His brain activity is off the charts. And it’s been steady, and consistent. There was a spike about a few hours ago, a kind we typically see in someone afraid.”

            Dean looked at the doctor. He couldn’t see any malice in the man. Dean clenched his hand into a tight fist. So, Cas was in some sort of nightmare, then. Stuck, because his body was too weak to wake up.   

            Sam must have been a freaking mind reader. “Do you know when he might wake up?”

            “Well, we can’t give an exact time frame, but as long as he continues to improve, and as long as we are able to take him off the ventilator today, I believe he could wake by tomorrow, day after. Of course, that is largely up to Cas. But it doesn’t seem like you have to worry in that area.” Doctor Murray smiled brightly. “He’s clearly a fighter.”

.

.

.

            The new scene was in Rufus Turner’s cabin. Castiel had never met the man, and only knew of him from stories told to him by the Winchesters and Bobby. Castiel knew the brothers had to hide in this cabin while the Leviathan were loose, because Bobby’s house had been burned down. Guilt twisted in Castiel’s gut. It was just another crime to add to his list.

            The cabin was small, but it smelled of liquor and vomit. Beer and whiskey bottles were scattered everywhere. On the coffee table, the kitchen countertops, overflowing from the trash can.

            Castiel scanned the entire area.

            Dean was lying on the bed tucked away into the far corner, hands white knuckled into the sheets. Castiel walked towards Dean, head tilted, and assessed the situation. Dean was in the throes of a nightmare, muttering words Castiel couldn’t quite make out. Sweat glistened on Dean’s brow. His face was ashen, and his shirt hung off his shoulders loosely. Castiel could make out the jut of Dean’s clavicle. He was malnourished.

            “Like what you see?” Gabriel said. Castiel looked over his shoulder. Gabriel was walking around the cabin, hands floating over every surface.

            “I don’t understand,” Castiel said. Dean tossed in his bed, face in the pillow. His face was twisted in pain, and Castiel’s heart ached that there was nothing he could do.

            “You will,” Gabriel said.

            Dean turned onto his side, and then, out of nowhere, shot upright, screaming “Cas!” Dean panted, breaths coming in short, labored pants. His eyes were blown wide, his body trembling. Dean’s wild eyes scanned every corner of the room, his gasps filling the tiny cabin for several moments before Dean swallowed and fell backwards onto the bed. He closed his eyes tight and threw his arm over his face. Dean groaned.

            Castiel looked back to Gabriel. “I’m….confused,” he said. He looked back to Dean. He must have misheard. Surely he had misheard. Castiel did not remember this incident. This had to be when he was an amnesiac, and the brothers thought he was dead.

            “He misses you. What’s to be confused about?”

            Castiel could not pull his eyes away from the Dean lying in the bed, obviously in pain. But not physical pain. Dean was emotionally hurt—Castiel could feel it, the ache in Dean’s heart.

            And…that ache was for him?

            “But,” Castiel said slowly. “Why?” he looked at his brother. “I let the Leviathan loose. I broke Sam’s wall.”

            Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe ‘cause you helped them save the world? Ask him yourself, if you want to know so bad. But then you’d have to go back.”

            Castiel clenched his teeth together. “I’ve told you all ready. My decision has been made. You’re supposed to take me Forward.”

            “There’s nothing Forward,” Gabriel said. “Nothing. Not a speck of anything.”

            “That sounds….rather nice,” Castiel assented. Nothing. Nothing for him to remember, nothing for him to feel guilty about, nothing to bring about pain nor misery….Why did Gabriel make it sound so horrible? It sounded like the best thing possible.

            “That doesn’t sound like the Cas I know,” Gabriel said.

            Something snapped inside Castiel’s mind. Rage flooded through his veins. His weakened grace sparked, exploded underneath his stolen skin. “You don’t know me,” Castiel said in an enraged whisper. “You never knew me. You left us.”

            Gabriel looked as though Castiel had struck him. Surprise came over his face like a curtain, but it only lasted a moment before it was concealed with absolute fury.

            “You’ve got some stones, kid,” Gabriel said, walking towards Castiel. Gabriel gripped Castiel’s shoulder tightly, tighter than he had before, and he gave Castiel a rough shake. “You’re lucky I like you, kid, ‘cause I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. It’s a one-time deal, though. I’ve got more to show you. A lot more, cause you’re still not getting it and honey, we’re just scraping the top. You want to die?” Gabriel shrugged, but vitriol laced was imbued with every word. “I’ve got a mission to see through and the end result is not you lying down and giving up.”

            “I’m not giving up,” Castiel said.

            Gabriel snorted. “Really? You could’ve fooled me! Running away like you did, trying to gut yourself like you did—how is that not giving up?”

            “I have given and given,” Castiel said, nails biting into the meat of his palms, angry tears pooling in his eyes, burning. “I have given everything I have. I have nothing left. I have served my purpose. My duty is done. I want to be done.”

            “Too bad,” Gabriel said. Castiel’s eyes shot up at him. “You don’t get to just decide that you’re done! Even when you think you’re running on empty, you keep pushing, keep grinding, keep moving, because that’s what we’re supposed to do! You’re a warrior, Cas—you know how it goes. Never give up, never surrender, fight to the end. Fight till you win. Okay, so, things have been a little shitty for a while, and maybe you have hit rock bottom, but that’s not a bad thing! It’s a good thing, actually, that you’ve hit rock bottom.”

            Castiel rolled his eyes, but Gabriel threw his arms around Castiel’s shoulder and drew him in close.

            “You’ve gone as low as you can, and now the only way left to go is up!” Gabriel exclaimed excitedly and then they were flying through the ether once more.

.

.

            “Look,” Gabriel said, before they even landed and Castiel had the chance to regain his equilibrium. The constant flying was beginning to make him light-headed dizzy. Was this how the Winchesters felt every time Castiel had flown them? If so, he could understand Dean’s reluctance towards it. It was not pleasant at all.

            Castiel had to blink, his vision fuzzy at first, before he was able to take in the scene before him. It was in the bunker. Dean was sitting at one of the long tables in the sitting room, a book in front of him and a glass of liquor beside him. He was constantly running his hands through his hair, eyes pinched in discomfort and frustration.

            Castiel was not able to determine the time period of this event. He looked around for any sort of clue that might help him.

            The bunker looked just as it always did, a little dusty, but orderly, with the aroma of the Winchesters all around.

            Sam’s heavy footsteps entered the sitting room. Castiel turned to face Sam, but he was taken aback. It wasn’t Sam he was seeing. It was Sam’s body, the same tall, muscular build that made up Sam, but the molecular composition was not Sam. Not just Sam.

            He hadn’t seen him when he’d been without his grace, and human, but he could see it now even with his damaged ethereal eyes. Gadreel’s grace was almost blackened in its bitter loneliness, shifting and twisting like a storm cloud. Drastic blobs of yellow dotted the clouding, fading in and out in brilliant waves.

            Castiel thought he understood now. This was when Dean had kicked him out of the bunker.

            Ice filled Castiel’s chest. He understood why Dean had kicked him out. Dean hadn’t a choice—he’d done it to protect Sam, and Castiel could never fault Dean for that.

            But Castiel hadn’t always understood. When it happened, he’d been weak, vulnerable, human; back from the dead once again, and though he hadn’t admitted it, he was scared. Terrified. He had lost his human life so easily, and he could have lost it so much earlier, after suffering the elements he had. But then Dean and Sam took him back to the bunker, took him _home,_ and Castiel knew warmth, and safety, and didn’t have to fear hunger or thirst. He’d been happy.

            But it only lasted for a minute.

            When Dean approached him, Castiel had no clue what it might be that Dean would say to him. He never imagined those words coming out of Dean’s mouth, especially so soon. Castiel had felt his heart crack, and the burrito he was eating turned to ash in his mouth, and just the idea of food threatened to make Castiel ill.

            He left the bunker then, back out into the cold he just escaped, with nothing but the clothes on his back and agony weighing at the bottom of his stomach.

            During his time alone, Castiel had been too preoccupied trying to ensure his own survival to think much of the Winchesters, except in passing. He never gave consideration to how Dean was affected by Castiel’s departure.

            Castiel watched the scene before him curiously. Dean was drinking again. More than just the glass of whiskey that sat on the tabletop. It was evident in that way he listed slightly as he sat, swaying just slightly to the left. His words were rougher than usual, like his throat was made of sandpaper. Dean was always meaner when he was drunk, too.

            “The hell do you want?” Dean spat bitterly. He glared at Gadreel like his eyes were made of fire.

            “I came to ensure you understand our agreement.”

            “’Agreement’? Oh, is that we’re calling it now? Guess I missed the memo, heh. See, way I see it, that was more like, uh, blackmail.”

            “Castiel is gone?”

            “Yes,” Dean yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. A splash of whiskey spilled out the top of the glass and fell onto the table. “He’s long gone by now, ya happy?”

            “Very,” Gadreel said. Watching this memory, Castiel wondered how he ever could have confused this imposter for Sam Winchester. Gadreel walked too stiffly, clearly uncomfortable in the vessel he had taken.

            “I don’t see why he had to go,” Dean muttered. “Nothing’s gonna get us in here. Place is built better than Fort Knox.”

            “Don’t become so comfortable that you become complacent,” Gadreel said. “The entire populous of Heaven is vying for Castiel’s blood. Any angel that is thought to be associated with him will receive the same treatment.”

            “So you’re just covering your own ass.”

            Gadreel cocked his head to the side. His eyebrows pinched together tightly. “I am healing your brother. If you want Castiel back, I can leave and find another vessel. But Sam will die.”

            Dean swallowed. He buried his face in his hands. “Fuck,” Dean said. He pressed his fingernails into the flesh of his forehead. “Fucking fuck.”  
            “Eloquent,” Gadreel said. He turned on his heels, spun in small circles as looked around the sitting area. He ran his fingers across the bookshelves, examining the different titles. Dean watched Gadreel, eyes blazing with rage. He downed the glass of whiskey and slammed it against the tabletop.

            “You know, you are right,” Gadreel said, running his fingers over the spines of the ancient tomes. “This place is fascinating. Many of these texts are from the Dark Ages.”

            “Yeah, I know,” Dean said. “I organized all of them.”

            Dean tapped his fingers against the table. He looked down at his lap, then to Gadreel, still reading the titles.

            Dean slipped his hand inside his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He unlocked it and opened the text messaging application when suddenly it flew from Dean’s hand. Gadreel caught it and examined the screen, displeasure written on his face.

            “I don’t think so,” Gadreel said gravely. “What do you think you’re doing?”

            Dean’s face paled. His looked at the phone in Gadreel’s hand. “Checking on Cas,” he said quietly.

            Gadreel shook his head. “That goes against our agreement, Dean. No communication. Angels could track it.”

            “C’mon, Zeke. I just need to check on him. Make sure he’s doing okay. What, I’m just supposed to forget about him?”

            “Yes,” Gadreel said plainly. “He’s of no use to you anymore. And after the crimes he’s committed—“

            “Finish that sentence,” Dean interrupted. “I dare you.”

            Gadreel looked stricken. His jaw was slack for a moment before it snapped shut with an audible click. Gadreel straightened his neck and approached Dean.

            “You are an insolent little man, and your heavenly destiny has given you an inflated sense of self-worth. I may be weak, Dean Winchester, but I am not an invalid, and I can destroy you as easy as a housefly. Why do you defend that scoundrel, Castiel? What fealty do you owe him?”

            “He’s family,” Dean spat. “And the only crime he’s committed is giving you dicks with wings third, fourth, fifth chances to prove you’re not so terrible! You guys fail every time, but he keeps believing in you. I’ll never understand that. I say, to hell with all of you. But Cas still believes you guys can be ‘saved’. Still believes you’re controlled under Heaven’s commie regime or something, and that you can change. But you’re all the same. Always with the threats---please, I’ve heard that ‘You’re a little bug and I’m a godly force of nature’ speech ten times now. Please come up with some new material. All of you are the exact same. Except Cas. He’s the only one of you worth a damn.”

            Castiel stood there, shocked. He couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. He had to be imaging them, right? He had to be dreaming this. The Dean he knew would never say those things, not about him. He was a failure. Dean had to know that. Why was Dean defending him, and so passionately?

            The scene paused, Dean on his feet with his hands spread out over the table, face red as he unleashed on Gadreel.

            “This isn’t real,” Castiel said, turning over his shoulder to look at Gabriel. “This is one of those, ‘it could have happened’ scenarios, right?”

            “Nope,” Gabriel said, popping his p. “This really happened. Pretty sweet, huh, Dean defending your honor and all that. Totes adorbs.”

            Castiel turned back to Dean. He didn’t understand. Dean was a passionate soul. It burned bright red near his heart, stronger and heavier than all the other colors that made up his soul. But Dean was passionate about hunting, protecting people and his brother—Dean wasn’t ever passionate about him. Castiel searched the make of Dean’s soul, and there was no lie. Dean meant every word.

            “I don’t understand,” Castiel admitted. “Dean’s never told me these things.”

            “Weellllll,” Gabriel said, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. “That’s because Dean’s what I might call a pansy. Well, okay, that’s not what _I_ would call him. What I would call him isn’t appropriate for your baby ears. But, see, here’s the thing. Remember that Dean’s emotionally constipated. Of course he’s not gonna say these things to you. That’s not how he rolls. But this is how he feels.”

            Something foreign swelled in Castiel’s chest. He couldn’t name it. Emotions were so hard. He still struggled with them, despite experiencing them for several years now. Many times, Castiel wasn’t sure how he was feeling. Many times, Castiel experienced several different emotions all at once.

            This was something heavy, and itchy, clawing at his heart. Emotions weighed all the way down to his stomach.

            “So, what do you think, bro? Still think there’s nothing for you back on Earth?”

            Dean had missed him. Dean had worried for him. Defended him.

            “He felt this way for me,” Castiel said. “And I betrayed his trust again. He defended me and I betrayed him by letting Lucifer free.”

            Castiel didn’t know what he had. He didn’t know the devotion Dean had for him. Dean defended him the same way Dean defended Sam to other hunters.

            “Dad help me,” Gabriel said, hands folded together, looking towards the sky.

            “You’re the one making it so hard on yourself,” Castiel snapped. “I’ve told you what I wanted. I want to go Forward. I want to die. Why won’t you let me die?” Castiel lost the strength to remain standing, so overcome with vibrating emotions. His knees buckled and he slide to the floor. Gabriel yelped in surprise and reached out to grab at Castiel’s arm. Castiel clutched at Gabriel’s shirt, white knuckling it, and he looked his brother straight in the eye, searching for an answer.

            “Why won’t you let me die?” he asked again, barely a whisper, searching for anything in Gabriel’s eyes that would give  him an answer. Why did Gabriel even care? Gabriel claimed to know him, but that was a fabrication. Gabriel didn’t know him at all. Gabriel faked his own death and abandoned them, let Heaven mourn for him for centuries. Castiel couldn’t even remember if he and Gabriel had ever spent any time alone before Gabriel left. To Gabriel, Castiel was probably just another lower tier angel. Just another mindless ant made to follow his orders.

            Gabriel’s eyes snapped, and it was like a switch had been turned on. The confused sadness that had spread in them vanished, replaced by righteous fury.

            “I never thought that about you!”

            Castiel clenched his teeth. He wrenched his hand away from Gabriel and leaned forward over his knees, covering his ears with his hands. “Stop reading my mind!”

            “I’m not sorry I left, Cas. And I’m sorry that I’m not sorry, but you knew what it was like! I couldn’t take the fighting. I couldn’t stand watching my family fall apart on itself. You don’t remember what it used to be like, before Michael and Lucifer were at each other’s throats, before Dad left. I had to leave. If I could go back in time, I’d take you with me, because you were always different than the other angels!

            “You were an annoying pain in the ass, that’s what you were! The other angels, you told them something, they just shrugged and went with it. Not you. You were always, ‘Why?’, ‘Where are we going?’, ‘What’s that?’. ‘Why’, ‘why’, ‘why’, I swear that’s all I ever heard from you!”

            Gabriel sighed, anger deflating out of him like a balloon. He pinched the bridge of his noise. “And I admired that about you, kid. I loved that you questioned everything, that you weren’t okay with an ‘I told you so’. And I was so fucking scared for you too, cause I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘This kid is gonna get himself killed. He’s not made for Heaven’. I should have brought you with me, Cas, when I left. I’m sorry I didn’t. I can’t undo that mistake—but I can tell you right now, you’re making a mistake right now, not going back. You don’t know how much those two bozos love you.”

            Castiel shook his head. Love him? No, that couldn’t be. Maybe the Winchesters respected him, and cared for him, but that was as an ally. Castiel helped. That was it. Besides, Gabriel kept forgetting that most vital part of Castiel’s decision to end his life. He freed Lucifer from the Cage. Whatever feelings the Winchesters may have felt for him at one point were abolished now because of that mistake.

            “Not true, bro,” Gabriel said, kneeling down. He put his hand in between Castiel’s shoulder blades, and sent a spark of grace pooling down Castiel’s spine. For a moment, the constant ache in his back ceased. “C’mon, you’ve still got more to see.”

.

.

.

          “He’s improving just like we hoped,” Doctor Murray said. Dean nodded, but otherwise didn’t say anything. He had nothing to say. His ass was numb from sitting in the uncomfortable, plastic chair for hours straight, not moving, just staring up at the ceiling and counting tiles. His mind had been trapped in a fugue for the last several hours. Just thinking was exhausting, and taking a toll on Dean’s body.

            “We did take him off the ventilator,” Doctor Murray continued. “He is breathing on his own right now, which is actually really wonderful. Brain activity still going same as it was. His wounds are healing nicely—your brother really is doing better than we could have imagined.”

            Dean swallowed. He forced himself to look at the doctor. “He’s gonna live?”

            Doctor Murray nodded. “As long as he keeps improving as he has. Now that he’s breathing on his own, infection is what we’re most fearful of, but as long as that wound is kept clean, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

            Sam exhaled in relief, limbs loosening like jelly. “Thank God,” Sam said.

            Dean sneered. God had nothing to do with anything, and Sam knew it. It had been nothing more than a slip of the tongue, Dean knew, but it still twisted at his heart. God was out there somewhere, and he didn’t give a damn about what happened. Gave new meaning to the term “hands-off parenting”.

            Castiel was going to live. Dean knew he should be elated. He wanted to be thrilled, wanted to let the relief flood through his veins like it did with Sam, but he couldn’t. Whenever he thought about it, his limbs grew taut, and his blood thickened inside his veins.

            He didn’t know how he and Cas were ever going to come back from this. They’d been through a lot of shit throughout the years. Done a lot of terrible things to each other, but they’d always found a way to get past it, even if they never exchanged “I’m sorrys”, to fight together against the next Big Bad that came their way.

            He didn’t know how they were going to ever get past this. Things could never return to any sort of normalcy after this. Dean would have to live with the guilt that something he said had been enough to abolish Cas’s will to live, and had driven him to try and kill himself. He needed to ensure that Cas knew every day of his life that he was important, and cared for, loved. Cas was a part of their small, battered family. With him gone, there was a gaping hole.

            Dean was terrified for when Cas woke up. What was Dean going to say? Should he say anything? Should he even be there? Sam was always better at the touchy-feely crap. Maybe he should just let Sam handle it all. For the first few hours, at least.

            No.

            No, Dean couldn’t do that. He had to be there. He had to be there for Cas. Dean was probably the last person Cas would want to see when he woke up from his failed suicide attempt, but Dean needed to be there. He needed to apologize, and grovel, and beg for Cas’s forgiveness, because this was his fault, and Cas needed to know Dean acknowledged that.

            Dean exhaled a shaky breath.

            “What about recovery?” Sam asked.

            Doctor Murray sat down on the chair next to Sam. Dean craned his neck at an uncomfortable angle to watch him.

            “He’s going to need to remain in the hospital for a few days. And then we have to administer a psych exam too.”

            Dean snorted—it seemed a little late for that, he thought bitterly.

            “Don’t put him on a psych hold,” Sam said hastily. Dean’s head shot up instinctively at the panicked tone in his brother’s voice. His heart beat a tattoo against his ribcage. “Please,” Sam pleaded, and though Dean couldn’t see his face from this angle, he could image his baby brother’s big, wet, puppy dog eyes. “It won’t be any good for him.”

            Doctor Murray blinked slowly. “He made a violent suicide attempt.”

            “I know,” Sam said, voice cracking. “But he’s our family, and I can assure you, you keep him here—especially against his will—is going to more harm to him than good. He needs to be with his family.”

            “Hospital protocol requires at least a session with a psychiatrist.”

            “But you won’t detain him?” Dean spoke up. Doctor Murray seemed surprised by Dean speaking up. He stared at Dean long; it was intrusive, and made Dean’s skin itch. It was very similar to the way Cas used to stare at Dean. It always made Dean feel like he had no secrets—that Cas knew everything about him just by looking at him.

            This was already a worst-case scenario, but Dean’s brain was an asshole and made it even worse, horrible situations coming to his mind at rapid fire. The kinds of things Cas might say to a psychiatrist. And what a normal, sane person who didn’t hunt monsters, or battle demons, or let Lucifer possess them to battle a primordial evil, would think of what Cas had to say.

            Dean remembered being very young the first time his dad impressed him the importance of keeping the family business a secret. Oftentimes, he had to scare Dean into keeping quiet, but Dean knew now why his dad had to do it. He tried to do the same with Cas, whenever he got a chance. Stress the importance of not mentioning demons, or angels, or monsters, because if someone heard him talking about those things, he could get taken away. Cas always seemed confused by Dean’s request, but he complied anyway. Still, it never quelled the fear in Dean’s stomach that Cas might make a mistake one day, say the wrong thing to the right person.

            His knee bounced up and down. If he could get to Cas before the psychiatrist….really really pound in the importance of keeping quiet…

            Doctor Murray sighed. “I’ll need to know the psychiatrist’s opinion before I can make a promise like that.”

            Dean swallowed and nodded mutely. It was as good as he was going to get, and it was still better than them admitting Cas as soon as he woke up.

            “I understand your concerns,” Doctor Murray continued. “And believe me, I understand that hospitals aren’t fun places, and that people would feel more at ease at home. But we have resources here that you don’t at home. Physically, he’s much safer here.”

            Dean was already planning escape routes in his head, and made a note to scout all the nearby exits, and make notes of where all the security cameras were located. He had escaped from hospitals and prisons before—he could do it again.

            He just hoped Cas would want to go with him.

            Doctor Murray looked between Dean and Sam. He slapped his hands against his thighs and rose to his feet. “It looks like you two have much to discuss. I’ll come back with updates.”

            The brothers waited until the doctor had disappeared down the hallway.

            “We need to put him on the hold,” Sam said.

            “Not happening,” Dean snapped.

            “Dean, he’s right. We can’t take care of Cas ourselves.”

            “Yes we can,” Dean was on the verge of yelling. Already, other families and nurses were starting to crane their necks to look back at him. Dean could feel their stares burning holes in his back, but he didn’t dare look over his shoulder. Didn’t dare give them the satisfaction of his attention. “I’m not dumping him in another hospital all by himself again.”

            “We made the right call then,” Sam said. “He was safer in the hospital back then than he would’ve been traveling with us. And it’s the same now. These people-they’re trained for stuff like this. And we’re not gonna dump him, or abandon him. We’re still gonna be here. Cas needs professional help.”

            Dean snorted. “Sammy, you and I both know no professional is gonna be able to help any of us. And what happens when Cas starts being Cas? They’ll commit him and throw away the key.” The heat dissipated out of Dean’s voice. He deflated like a balloon, and couldn’t muster up the energy to be angry anymore.

            Sam was quiet for a long moment. Sam turned his head away from Dean’s and rubbed at his face with his hands.

            “What are we supposed to do then?” Sam said softly. It was just a simple question. Sam shrugged. “Take him home and pretend like everything’s fine?”

            “Of course not,” Dean spat. “But we can’t leave him—“

            “We have to do what’s best for Cas.”

            Dean felt like his heart was trapped in a vice. Sam was right, of course he was. Sam was always the logical one, the one who kept his head straight in a crisis. Everything he said was making perfect sense.

            But Dean didn’t want to accept it. He fought so hard—tooth and nail—at every turn to keep his small, broken family together. And they were broken. Dean was a barely functioning alcoholic, Sam was always trying to escape a past that would always shadow him, and Cas was a worn-torn soldier, disowned and disillusioned.

            And they were a disaster together.

            But they were a family. Dean had fought Heaven and Hell to keep his family together—no way was he going to let doctors and protocol separate them.

            Even if Cas wanted nothing to do with him, Dean would at least see to it that he made it out of the hospital. Even if it was the last thing he did.

.

.

.

            The scene didn’t seem to have changed. They were still in the bunker library. Dean was sitting at the same table he always sat at, Sam across from him. It was actually Sam this time—Castiel could see the warm oranges of his soul. They were both hunched over large tomes. Empty coffee mugs were scattered around the table.

            As Castiel took in the scene, more details became clear. Dean was unkempt. He had allowed his facial hair to grow much longer than he usually he did; his hair was untidy, and his clothes were wrinkled. His skin had an ashen pallor to it, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Sam looked just as well, with chapped lips and a grease matted to his hair

            “Anything?” Dean said, the exasperation loud in his voice.

            Sam shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, leaning back against his chair. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed his hand to them.

            “Goddamnit!” Dean slammed the tome shut. Dust was thrown into the air and it floated into Dean’s face. Dean coughed and waved away the dust with his hand, eyes reddening with irritation. “Fuck.” Dean slammed his head against the edge of the table. Castiel jolted. He had never seen Dean act this way before—it was strange, and he wondered when this event was. What had occurred to make Dean act in such a manner?

            Dean sighed long and forlornly. His shoulders were hunched tightly together. He raised his head just enough to meet Sam’s eye.

            “What are we going to do?”

            Sam chewed on his lip. “I don’t know.”

            “There has to be something we can do."

            “There might not be this time.”

            An animalistic growl tore at Dean’s throat. “There has to be something somewhere.” Out of nowhere, Dean rose from his chair and made his way to the bookshelves across the room in three large strides. Dean put his fingertips against the spines of books and made his way across each row. “Come on, come on,” he muttered.

            “Dean, there’s no use. Maybe…maybe the answer is Lucifer.”

            “Sammy, so help me God, you better shut your face.”

            “I don’t like it any more than you do! But we have to consider it as an option. He did defeat the Darkness once before.”

            “Yeah, with the help of God and the three other arch-douches. Oh, and he wasn’t riding inside Cas during that time either!”

            Castiel heard the words, but it took a few moments for them to register.

            Gabriel was by his side, a supporting figure, but Castiel felt that he was alone, watching this scene play out. His emotions plateaued as he watched it—he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing, wasn’t sure how he was to feel about it.

            “We have to give Lucifer a chance,” Sam said.

            “No,” Dean spat. “No, we’re not. The only time I even want to see that---that--” Dean broke off in frustration, biting into his lip. “We’re saving Cas, and then we’re gonna defeat the Darkness on our own, like we’ve done with every other Big Bad to come our way.”

            Castiel had only heard that tone in Dean’s voice when it came to Sam. Anytime Sam’s well-being was in danger, Dean’s tone bordered on something between paternal and anxious, and it was one Castiel had become accustomed to when Dean spoke of his brother.

            But now Dean was using it for Castiel. The tone that had once been reserved for Sam alone…

            “What if Cas doesn’t want to be saved?”

            “Bullshit. He does.”

            “He _chose_ this.”

            “And?” Dean spun hot on his heels.

            “We have to respect his wishes.”

            “Well, Sam, you know want? Sometimes I wish to get slapped during sex by a girl in a Zorro mask—that don’t make it a good idea!”

            Gabriel made a chortling sound, but Castiel stepped closer to the phantom Dean, eyes pinched in confusion. He didn’t understand. Dean was….worried for him. Upon examination, Dean had forsaken sleep and sustenance and cleanliness to research a way to defeat the Darkness and to save him?

            Castiel felt like he was watching a movie in a language he didn’t understand.

            “We have to respect his wishes,” Sam repeated, more forcefully.

            Dean paused for a long, tense moment. The air in the bunker grew heavy, and thick—it seemed to have its own heartbeat, its own breathe. “Even if it kills him?” Dean asked tonelessly.

            Sam swallowed. “I don’t like it either, but he chose this. I thought we agreed not to interfere with each other’s choices.”

            “Well, there has to be a sub-clause somewhere about letting the freaking devil down your throat on a freaking hunch! Who knows what the hell Lucifer’s even doing to him right now?”

            Dean’s soul had tiny, pinpricks of blood, red—his rage at Lucifer. They were contrasted by the ripples of pale, blue—anxiety. Anxiety for Castiel’s safety.

            Castiel saw it in this moment. What his decision to let Lucifer possess him had done to the Winchesters. He had assumed the brothers would have been furious at him for endangering them, for undoing their work of imprisoning Lucifer

            Castiel didn’t see that. He saw worry for him. His well-being. He saw the brothers working tirelessly to try and find a way to save him. Sam—though Sam wanted to respect the choice Castiel made, Castiel could see Sam’s worry, Sam’s distress at the thought of losing another friend.

            And Dean was a maelstrom of all sorts of different emotions: fear, anxiety, anger, depression. He saw Dean staying up for nights on end, only catching micro sleeps here and there, in-between turning pages of yet another useless tome. He saw Dean curled up in his bed, door locked, praying.

            _You got your ears on, Cas?_

            Castiel swallowed. He hadn’t known Dean had prayed to him. He hadn’t heard a word from Dean until that moment when he had been thrown suddenly into control of the vessel once more, but that had only lasted a moment, and Castiel hadn’t been aware of what was going on.

            He could see it in this visage of Dean, heard all of the prayers Dean had sent his way that Lucifer must have blocked.

            _We’ll find another way._

_Cas, please, you don’t have to do this._

_Can you hear me? Cas?_

_Kick him out! Take your body back! Fight, damn it, fight him!_

_Are you okay? Cas, give me a sign. Please._

_Are you alive? Are you gonna make it out okay?_

_Lucifer, can you hear me? Listen up, asshole. I don’t know what you said to Cas to make him consent to being your meatsuit, but if you touch a hair on his head, you’re gonna wish you stayed in the Cage._

The passion in Dean’s voice was nothing like Castiel had ever heard—not when it came to him.

            “It’s a strong vessel,” Sam said, bringing Castiel back to scene before him. It was disorientating, being bounced around between all of Dean’s emotions. Castiel felt like he was trapped inside a tornado. “It’s held Cas for years now.”

            Disgust melted down Dean’s face. He looked like he’d been slapped. Dean dropped the book he had pulled from the bookshelf. It landed on the floor, spewing up a cloud of dust, the _thud!_ echoing throughout the sitting room of the bunker. “It’s not a vessel, Sam,” Dean said, his voice cracking, raising in pitch. His face was red, eyes wet. “It’s Cas,” Dean’s breaths were coming in short, heavy pants now, like he was struggling to inhale. “And Cas is family!” Dean punctuated word with a heavy breath.

            Family.

            Dean had told Castiel he was family only on a handful of occasions; but it had always been in situations where Dean wanted something from him, or Dean wanted him to not do something.

            Castiel wondered sometimes if the brothers thought of him when he wasn’t around. The brothers were always on his mind, whether Castiel was in the same room, or on the other side of the Earth. It passed his mind occasionally when he allowed his mind to wander. Did the brothers think of him? Speak of him? Did they tell their other friends about him? Did he exist beyond his presence?

            Castiel had always respected Dean for his mighty indignation about what he thought was right. The passion that ignited his soul was part of the reason it had shone so brightly, even so deep in the Pit. Castiel could remember the moment he touched Dean’s soul, and was overcome with a feeling of _humanness._

            Dean was passionate about many things. His love for Sam, his devotion to what he did, his reverence for his father and mother.

            And Castiel was one of the things Dean was passionate about too.

            “Which is why,” Sam said, voice cracking, “we have to respect his wishes.”

            Dean shook his head and turned away from Sam. Anger palpated under his skin, eroded the colors of his soul. “Forget it,” Dean said. The fight was gone from his voice. “I’ll save him myself if I have to.”

            Gabriel snapped his fingers and the scene paused. Sam was pushing out of chair, motioning towards Dean. Dean’s back was turned, headed away from the sitting room towards the bedrooms. Castiel could imagine Dean storming away to barricade himself in his room and play his music loud enough it would make the walls shake. Dean sitting on his bed, researching on his laptop, ways to save Castiel.

            Dean’s priority wasn’t defeating the Darkness. Dean’s priority was saving him.

            “You get it now, bro?” Gabriel said gently. “Those two are a mess without you.”

            Castiel’s throat was tight. “But…” he still couldn’t get it out of his mind, Dean’s face red with rage, the sounds of glass smashing against the floor reminiscent of fists against bones, Dean telling him without a note of sarcasm in his voice to _stop helping._ That Dean didn’t match the Dean he had just seen.

            Gabriel slung his arm around Castiel’s shoulder and tugged him close. Castiel was tense, bones stiff, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene before him, while Dean’s last words to him still played on repeat.

            “Listen, Cas. I haven’t spent as much time around the Winchesters as you have—which is probably too much, if I may add—“  
            “You may not—“

            “Fair enough. But, I’ve been around them long enough to know that humans, the Winchesters especially, don’t always say what they mean. I don’t know why—that’s just a mystery of being human, I guess. But you can’t always what take what they say as what they mean in their hearts. Look at that. These two bozos can’t function without you around.”

            Castiel swallowed.

            When Lucifer battled the Darkness, Castiel had felt like vitriol coursed through his blood. Every part of him burned. His grace, already battered and bruised, was grated, shredded even further. He was hot—too hot, hotter than the surface of the sun. He felt like he was trapped inside a tornado, being twisted and thrown in all directions, he was upside down and backwards and Castiel was sure he was going to die.

            When he woke up, Lucifer was burned out of his vessel and the Darkness had been vanquished. Castiel had lain on the icy ground, wondering why he couldn’t just die?

            Then Sam had found him and helped him to his feet. They weren’t far from the bunker. Sam helped Castiel walk to the bunker door, quiet except for asking if Castiel was hurt anywhere. Then they came into the bunker and Dean attacked.

            How long ago had any of that even been? It seemed so long ago. An eternity, maybe. But it couldn’t have been that long.

            “Cas?” Gabriel asked. “Kiddo? You crying?”

            Castiel touched his fingers to his cheeks, surprised to feel wetness. He looked at his fingertips. He was crying—he didn’t even know when he’d started.

            He felt weak at the knees. It was a struggle just to stand, and if it weren’t for Gabriel supporting him, Castiel would have crashed to the ground.

            The memory was frozen—stuck on Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed in prayer. He hadn’t heard Dean pray to him in many years—not since Purgatory.

            Dean was mourning him. That was the only word could find to describe the cataclysm of Dean’s emotions. Castiel had said yes to Lucifer, and Dean mourned him. Dean was fighting for a way to save him.

            Ambriel’s words still echoed inside his head.

            “It’s okay, Cas,” Gabriel said. “Hey, it’s okay. All this is a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” Gabriel paused. “What are you thinking?”

            Castiel took a shaky breath, despite his lack of need. “I need a moment,” he said.

            They were back in the In-Between. The eternal whiteness. No sign of Dean on his bed, or the brothers researching during the middle of the night in the library room.

            Castiel slide to his knees, Gabriel’s support no longer enough to keep him upright.

            “Hey, hey,” Gabriel said, following Castiel to the ground. Gabriel’s voice was shaky. “What are you thinking? You made a decision yet?”

            Castiel swallowed. “I need a moment,” he said, and he turned and laid down on his side.

.

.

.

            Two days later, Cas was deemed well enough to be moved out of ICU. Doctors were baffled by the impressive rate Cas was healing at. Too slow for an angel, Dean knew, but still too quick for a human. He was breathing on his own. His skin was knitting together nicely. Vitals were healthy and stable. Bloodwork was impeccable.

            But he still wouldn’t wake up.

            Dean firmly planted himself in a chair at Cas’s bedside and had only moved at rare instances to use the toilet. Sam brought Dean coffee and bags of chips from the vending machines that Dean could only half-finished with no enthusiasm, leaving them to go cold and stale.

            He had a crick in his neck the size of Texas, and he probably left indentions in the chairs if his sore backside was any indication.

            He kept rubbing small circles over the back of Castiel’s hand. He looked up the monitor and watched the little green arrow bump up and down. It didn’t go nearly as high or as fast as it had been when Dean first day it. Doctor Murray likened it to someone in a restful state.

            “C’mon,” Sam said for what had to be the fortieth time. “Go to the motel room. Sleep on a real bed. I’ll watch him. I’ll call if anything changes.”

            Dean shook his head. “I’m okay.”

            “You’re really not,” Sam said. He put a large hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s been months since you’ve got a real night’s sleep.”

            “What’s a few more days then?” Dean muttered. He didn’t have the energy to get into another shouting match with Sam. And he didn’t want the nurses to kick him out for making a scene.

            “Dean.” Sam was running low on his patience.

            Dean turned and faced his brother. Sam had gotten a motel room the other night, and he would slip out sometimes and grab three or four hours before he came back, never looking any better rested than when he had left.

            “What if he wakes up?” Dean said. “What if he wakes up and I’m not here?”

            He needed to be here when Cas finally got through battling his inner demons and opened his eyes. The first thing Cas needed to hear was Dean apologizing. If Dean left and Cas woke up while he was gone, Dean would never be able to recapture the opportunity.

            Sam sighed. Dean turned back to Cas’s sleeping form. He stayed obsessively focused on the rise and fall of Cas’s chest, making sure they stayed consistent. As long as that Cas kept moving, as long as Cas’s heart kept beating, he would be okay. He would pull through.

            “Fine,” Sam said tonelessly. “I just…I’m sorry. I can’t just stay in here and stare at him.”

            “Then don’t,” Dean said.

            Sam left. The door clicked behind him. For a moment, there was just the sound of all the medical machinery.

            Dean sighed. “You can’t die on me, man,” Dean said. He kept rubbing circles onto the back of Cas’s hand. “You need to wake up so I can apologize and you can kick my ass. Cas?”

            Cas’s eyes stayed closed. His chest rose and fell. His heart beat.

            Dean pinched his eyes shut. “I’ve got something to tell you. Heh. Probably don’t want to hear it from me, not now. But, you should know…”

            Dean wasn’t sure when this thing he and Cas had become something more, but it wasn’t until this past year that it came to the forefront of his consciousness and realized it.

            People talked about guardian angels in fondness, dreamily, wistfully, as something mythical that may or may not be there.

            Dean actually had a guardian angel, though. He had his very own guardian angel, one Dean knew would do anything to protect him and Sam. An angel rescued him from Hell. An angel fought beside him in the deathly battles of Heaven against Hell. An angel had sacrificed himself  to give Dean the chance of saving his brother. An angel sat in Dean’s kitchen and had eaten food Dean had prepared.

            Dean had his own guardian angel that was kick-ass, horrifying, and a genius, but somehow also be so kind-hearted, soft-spoken, and naïve. Dean’s guardian angel smote demons left and right, had been in heavenly battles, lead an army, and was in every sense of the word a soldier. And he still found the time to heal babies and sick people, fawned over cats, and loved cartoons.

            It was one night during this last horrible year, when he lay awake in bed despite exhaustion resting deep in his marrow, Mildred’s words repeating over and over again in his head. It felt like he’d been hit in the teeth with a sledgehammer.

            He loved Castiel.

            And not in the way Dean loved his other friends—Jody, Kevin, Charlie, Garth—in the way that he enjoyed their company, he cared for their well-being, he wanted them to be happy and safe and to succeed.

            And not in the way Dean loved Sam. It was close. They were the two most important people in his life. He’d die for either of them. But what he felt for Sam and what he felt for Cas were not the same. He couldn’t put it into words how they varied.

            It didn’t matter, though. Whatever sort of love he felt towards Castiel—it couldn’t be reciprocated. Not after the way Dean’s treated Cas over the years. And anyway, Dean wasn’t even sure how he could claim to love Cas when there was so much paraded right in front of him that he failed to notice.

            Christ, Lucifer had been possessing Castiel for months before they found out. And they didn’t even discover it on their own—Lucifer had to tell them.

            Dean pressed his forehead against the bed railing. He still kept rubbing Cas’s hand.

            And Cas had gone through who-knows-what kind of Hell while Lucifer had been riding around inside him. Not Dean, that’s for certain. Dean had seen Cas walk inside, guided by Sam, and he unloaded. When Dean thought back to that day, it was like he wasn’t the one saying those horrible things. It felt more like a dream. He was a witness, not a participant.

            But of course Dean was a participant. Not just a participant, he was the instigator. And when he thought back to what he said, he cringed. His skin crawled like they were bugs underneath it.

            “C’mon, Cas,” Dean pleaded. “You got to wake up. You got to wake up so you can punch me in the face.”

            Cas had been Lucifer’s prom dress, trapped between Satan and the Darkness, caught right in the center of their epic battle—and he survived. Again, against all the odds, Cas lived through the trauma. Cas could not die like this. Not by his own hand. Not because Dean was an idiot who couldn’t admit the truth of how he felt.

            Cas’s chest continued to rise and fall.

            Dean squeezed Cas’s hand.

            “C’mon, Cas,” he whispered, tears dripping out his eyes. “You got to wake up.”

.

.

.

            “C’mon, Cas,” Gabriel said. “You got to get up. You’ve been laying there for days now.”

            “Have I?” Castiel muttered. Time was meaningless to him in this place. He just lay on his side, staring at the vast nothingness before him, lacking the energy to make any sorts of movements. Gabriel had humored him at least for a little bit, and did not try to engage Castiel in conversation. But for a while now (Castiel had no idea how long it had been) Gabriel talked, and talked, and talked. Petty, idle chatter, offering nothing of intellectual value. Castiel had nothing to reply with. He wished Gabriel would leave him alone, if he wouldn’t take Castiel Forward.

            “One more trip,” Gabriel said quietly. “Let me show you one more scene and…and then if you still want to go Forward, I’ll take you. I promise.”

            Castiel looked over his shoulder.

            “You swear?”

            Gabriel saluted with his two forefingers. “Scout’s honor.”

            Castiel sighed. He’d seen the toll Lucifer’s possession had taken on the Winchesters. But Castiel didn’t think there was anything worth living for if he went back. On rare occasions, Sam and Dean implored that Castiel was their family, but when the eleventh hour struck, their true priorities surfaced. Castiel couldn’t fault either Dean or Sam for always putting the other first. They were brothers. Of course they would do whatever it took to protect the other, even if it meant ostracizing or even sacrificing their fellow friends and “family”.

            Maybe Castiel was selfish, but for once, he wished someone would prioritize him. He didn’t think that was something he’d ever get from the Winchesters. They cared for him the way some people cared for a pet. Its company was enjoyed, it was beloved by the family, its death might even be grieved—but its death wouldn’t be catastrophic to your life and you would move on, and might eventually get to the point where you could go weeks or months without thinking of that once beloved pet. Maybe, eventually, you would even get a new pet.

            Castiel sighed. He was so tired. He just wanted to be done.

            “Say it again,” Castiel said quietly. “I want to make sure you’re not catching me in a trap.”

            Gabriel frowned and looked offended. “Watch this final scene. If after watching this final scene, you still want to go Forward—which, might I add, is permanent, no takesie backsies, you’re dead as Cindy Crawford’s modeling days—I’ll take you there. No more arguing. Even though I still think you’d be making a horrible mistake.”

            Castiel nodded. Gabriel’s hand was on Castiel’s shoulder, tighter than it had been throughout this entire, tormenting experience. Together, they flew through the ether.

                                                   

.

.

.

            It took Castiel a moment to understand what was happening in this scene. The first saw thing he saw was himself—his human vessel, lying motionless in a hospital bed with all sorts of apparatus set around him. It was a peculiar, surreal experience, because though Castiel had come to accept this body as his very own, it still didn’t feel like _him_ , and staring at it was like staring at a stranger.

            Then he saw Dean by his bedside, just the black bed railing keeping him from being right at Castiel’s side. Dean’s hand was wrapped tightly around the vessel’s. Castiel looked down at his hand. He could not feel how it was entwined with Dean’s. Castiel squeezed his hand into a fist. The vessel’s hand did not move.

            “What is this?” Castiel said.

            “Real time,” Gabriel said. “Look at him, Cas. He’s a wreck.”

            Dean was ragged. Dark circles marred the skin under his eyes. He had several days’ worth of growth on his face. His clothing was unkempt. Dean looked better put together in Purgatory than he did here.

            Castiel stepped forward. His footsteps made no noise—it was like he was a ghost. Castiel walked until he stood behind Dean. Dean was not asleep, but he was deeply troubled.

            Castiel was so caught up in the scene before him, it took him a few moments to realize Dean was speaking.

            “The doctor says you’ll wake up on your own time,” Dean muttered so lowly, even Castiel strained to hear him. “But I’m starting to think at this point, you might not ever wake up.”

            Dean’s quiet voice was weighted with such intense emotion. Grief was sewn into every word. Castiel felt…something tug inside him at the tone in Dean’s voice.

            “Look, I get it if you don’t ever want to see me again. I get it if you’ll want nothing to do with me. I deserve a bit more than the cold shoulder from you. But I just need you to wake up. I need you to be okay. I’ve lost so much of my family throughout my life…even if I don’t ever get to see you again, I think I can be okay with knowing you’re okay.

            “I shouldn’t have said those things. I know it means jackshit right about now, but…” Dean cleared his throat. “I was angry. I was angry and worried and I let it get the better of me. I didn’t mean….Goddamnit. I promise this’ll be better when you wake up and I can tell you for real.”

            Dean sat up suddenly. He used his free hand to rub at his jaw. Dean’s eyes glanced up to the different monitors placed on the other side of the bed. Castiel stared at them too. He recognized them from television shows and his few stays in hospitals during times when his grace was weakened, but he didn’t understand what any of the numbers meant. Dean seemed mesmerized by them, though.

            “I know I do a shitty job of showing it,” Dean’s voice was still barely above a whisper. “But I love you.”

            Castiel didn’t need to breathe, but at Dean’s admission, it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Castiel wasn’t sure if he had even heard Dean correctly at first. He looked to Gabriel wordlessly. Castiel hadn’t heard Dean tell that to anyone, not even Sam. Not ever.

            Gabriel just stared at Castiel. His usual jester-like grin was back, something that seemed to scream ‘I told you so’. Castiel felt like someone had just spoken to him in a language he didn’t understand.

            Nothing in Dean’s body language suggested he was lying. He had no reason to lie anyway. Dean was alone—at least, as far as Dean knew. As far as Dean knew, there was no one around to hear him. No one from whom he would need to hide a secret.

            Castiel stood behind Dean, still as a statue. He looked to his vessel. That thing which was him and not him at the same time.

            “Like, I love you love you,” Dean continued on. He whispered it like it was something delicate that could only be shared between him and Cas. “I’d really like the chance to show it to you properly.”

            Castiel looked back to Gabriel. Gabriel shrugged innocently.

            “Told you so, bro,” Gabriel said.

            “I,” Castiel began. He paused. “I don’t understand.”

            Volatile emotions swelled in his chest. Dean loved him? Dean loved him back?

            Castiel had little experience with emotions. Ten years did little to dent the millennia he lived being told that real angels did not have emotions. But he knew early on the fondness that curled in his heart whenever he was near, or even thought of Dean Winchester, could never be called anything other than love. Nearer the initial realization, Castiel wondered if this was how God felt about his creations. Such a powerful, suffocating, positive emotion. 

            But Castiel had never entertained the idea that Dean felt the same way. Dean often mocked him, or belittled him, and sometimes outright ignored him. Castiel barely understood his own emotions—he couldn’t even begin to comprehend the emotions of Dean Winchester. So Castiel never assumed.

            But, hearing Dean’s hushed admission out loud…something inside Castiel cracked. He trembled.

            “Cas?” Gabriel was by Castiel’s side in an instance. “Cas, you doing okay?”

            Castiel had lost the capacity to form words. All he could do was focus on Dean and Dean’s words.

            Dean loved him back.

            Everything Gabriel had shown him hit Castiel like a tsunami. He could see it all now. Dean may not have ever said the words, but Castiel could see love etched into Dean’s actions.

            Dean had nightmares about the Leviathan killing Castiel.

            Dean hadn’t wanted to kick Castiel out of the bunker with nothing but the clothes on his back. Dean had been just as distraught as Castiel that night.

            Dean lost sleep and forgot food and water while he searched for a way to rescue Castiel from Lucifer.

            Maybe Dean had never said the words before, but the love had always been there.

            “I’m a coward,” Dean began to speak again. “Shoulda told you sooner. But you deserve better than me, really. You’re an angel. An actual angel and I’m….” Dean sighed. His hand was still wrapped tightly around the vessel’s. “You probably don’t want to hear it now anyway.”

            Castiel reached out. His fingertips brushed the back of Dean’s head, but Dean did not react. Of course. Castiel was not really here. Dean had no idea Castiel was here, eavesdropping onto this delicate, intimate conversation.

            “Dean,” Castiel whispered. Castiel felt like he’d just charged at top speed into a brick wall. He’d been struck with a force so strong, his bones vibrated. “Dean.”

            Castiel loved Dean before he could even comprehend the emotion. He loved Dean ever since that moment in Zachariah’s green room, Dean imploring Castiel to make a choice—to choose him over everything Castiel knew. There had been such passion, such indignation, in Dean’s voice, the likes of which Castiel had never seen before. He couldn’t help but love Dean Winchester in that moment and he made his choice.

            And throughout the years, throughout the blows, and fights, the betrayals, and broken hearts, Castiel made the same choice every time it was presented to him. He would always choose Dean Winchester. No matter the circumstances, no matter the stakes, Castiel would pick Dean over God himself and never regret the decision.

            Castiel never imagined Dean could ever return the feeling. Despite his love, Castiel had hurt Dean in the past, continuously. Some days it seemed like Castiel couldn’t _not_ hurt Dean and it was part of that thinking that had led Castiel to try his hand at _seppuku._ He couldn’t hurt Dean if he was dead.

            Castiel never imagined his death would cause Dean any undue grief.

            “I know I’ve been a shitty friend,” Dean continued on. “You got to give me the chance to make it up to you.” Dean rubbed his nose. “You saved the world, man. You deserve better than this.”

            Castiel doubted that, but he could not argue with Dean. Castiel had seen Dean in Hell, had touched his soul, could see through the front of indifference and machismo Dean put up, but never before had he seen Dean so unfiltered.

            “You ready?” Gabriel asked.

            Castiel turned towards Gabriel. Gabriel stuck out his hand. Castiel’s face felt drained of all color. He stared at the hand like it was a snake that could strike out and bite him.

            “Cas? What’s your choice?”

            There was no choice after all.

            “You have to take me back,” Castiel whispered. Tears burned at his eyes. “I want to go back."

.

.

.

            Dean’s hand was beginning to feel numb, but he couldn’t make himself let go of Cas. Letting go felt like giving up and Dean refused to give up. He needed to have faith, he told himself.

            _Have faith,_ he forced himself to think. _Good things do happen._

            Dean squeezed Cas’s hand again. It was almost a reflex at this point.

            And then Cas squeezed back.

            Dean pulled his head up from the railing. “Cas?” he said quietly, afraid if he spoke any louder, something would shatter.

            It happened so fast.

            Cas shot up, ramrod straight, like a drowning man breaching the surface and gasping for air. His eyes were wide open, hair sticking in all directions, and Dean was paralyzed, momentarily in shock. There was a tense moment where their eyes met—the deep, ocean blue Dean thought he might never see again—and it was like being frozen in time. Seconds seemed to drag into minutes, but Dean knew it couldn’t have been longer than an instant that he said, tentatively, “Cas?” that Castiel lunged towards Dean, crashing their lips together.

            Dean’s brain was lagging from the rest of his body because he was returning the sentiment before he began to think ‘Cas is kissing me’.

            They broke for air. The atmosphere was heavy. A thousand unspoken words passed between them in the span of a breathe.

            “Dean,” the voice Dean thought he might never get to hear again lifted another weight of worry off Dean’s shoulders, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“

            But Dean couldn’t comprehend the words because he was word vomiting, useless apologies that he had to say, even if it wouldn’t change anything. “Cas, I’m sorry I swear I’m sorry I didn’t mean what I said I was pissed—“

            “There’s so much I didn’t know, so many things I never saw—“

            “You saved the world and I kicked you in the teeth---“

            “I didn’t want to work with Lucifer, I just wanted to help—“

            “And you do help, Cas!”

            Cas’s was rendered speechless.

            “You do help,” Dean insisted, because it was very, very important that Cas know. “You made the right call. Lucifer was what we needed. You help Cas, you do so much, I don’t want you to ever stop helping, I mean it. I never should have said those things, I didn’t mean them. And…”

            Dean’s chest shuddered.

            “I thought you were going to die,” Dean openly sobbed. “I thought you died and I had killed you.”

            Dean couldn’t even find the courage to look Cas in the eyes. His head was pressed once more to the bed railing, body trembling with his violent sobs.

            Cas’s hand gently rubbed at the nape of Dean’s neck.

            “It’s all right now,” Cas said. “I’m okay.”

            Dean shook his head. “It’s not all right,” he spat. “You don’t treat people you love like that.”

            The words were out before Dean could help it—and he was paralyzed in humiliation before he realized…he and Cas had kissed. They had actually, honest to all that it holy, _kissed._ And Cas had initiated it.

            Slowly, Dean peeled his head off the railing and forced himself to look back at Cas. Cas met him with that same reverence that Cas always looked at Dean with.

            “To be fair,” Cas said softly. “I haven’t always treated you the best, either.”

            Dean sniffed. If Cas was talking about the Naomi crypt thing…Dean didn’t hold that against Cas. Well. Not anymore, at least.

            “It seems,” Cas said, squeezing Dean’s hand, “to be human nature that we inevitably hurt the ones we love.”

            “I do, y’know,” Dean said. “Love you.”

            Even though he probably shouldn’t. Even though he had nothing to offer an actual angel, made by actual God, that could ever be considered worthy. Even though Hell still coursed through his blood.

            “I know,” Cas said. Dean would have snorted and congratulated Cas for using a pop culture reference correctly, except when Dean looked into Cas’s eyes, he realized it wasn’t a reference. Cas was being serious. “I know so many things now.”

            There was something different about Cas’s eyes. They looked lighter. They were not weighed down by the trauma and mistakes of these past several years.

            “Yeah?” Dean asked.

            Cas nodded. “So many things,” Cas repeated. “Gabriel showed me.”

            Dean raised an eyebrow. “Gabriel?”

            “Yeah,” Cas said. “He’s not so bad after all.”

            Dean huffed. “Really?”

            Cas nodded. “He helped me make the right choice.”

            There was so much in that single sentence—sinister and foreboding. Dean didn’t want to even consider what the other option Cas had was, but he sent a silent prayer to Gabriel—wherever that bastard was—thanking him.

            “Things are gonna be different now,” Dean said. “I swear.”

            “I believe you,” Cas said in that same tone that once uttered _I gave everything for you._

            “Good,” Dean said. He cleared his throat. He didn’t do well with chick-flick moments on the best of days, and did his best to avoid them entirely. He was making up for it now.

            But that was okay.

            He could do chick-flick moments for Cas. After these last few days, those horrible words ceaselessly cycling in Dean’s mind, watching Cas’s chest rise and falling, thinking _maybe this is it; end of the line_ , chick-flick moments weren’t so horrible. Cas was alive. He was awake. He loved Dean back.

            Dean smiled. There was only one last hurdle to jump across. “So,” he said. “You up for ditching this joint?”

.

.

.

            It was only a few weeks after the ordeal, but Castiel and the Winchesters had found a delicate, domestic routine of dining together and watching movies and retaining no secrets.

            After they had escaped the hospital, Dean called Sam. When they were reunited, Sam had pulled Castiel into a tight, warm embrace that initially caught him off guard. His arms hung uselessly by his sides, pick line still in his hand, until he remembered he was supposed to hug back and his arms found their way around Sam’s shoulders.

            Sam whispered in his ear, “I’m so glad you’re okay,” and through the lump in his throat, Castiel had only been able to reply “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

            With the threats of the Darkness and Lucifer vanquished, the Winchesters were in no hurry to set back out into the world.

            “I don’t know, Sam,” Dean said one night in front of the fireplace. “Maybe it’s time we hang up our hats. Welcome the new generation of hunters. Hell, maybe we can make like Bobby and handle the fake credentials part.”

            “You’re serious?” Sam asked.

            Dean shrugged. “Worth considering, at least,” he said. His eyes drifted towards Castiel. They sat next to each other, backs turned to the fireplace, knees touching. “I think we’ve done more than enough favors for the world. ‘Bout time the world started paying us back.”

            Castiel could imagine living like this. No more of fighting heavenly battles, no longer being caught in the middle of the powers that be. He could imagine calling the bunker his home, Sam his brother, Dean his lover—making meals, watching movies, being together because they wanted  to be together, not because they were tied by circumstances. He had never known anything other than being a soldier—and yet, Castiel could easily imagine it.

            “What do you think, Cas?” Dean asked, nudging his knee against Castiel’s.

            Castiel traced his finger across the rim of his mug of hot chocolate. “We should get a cat,” he said.

            Sam chortled. Dean huffed in annoyance.

            “You really want a cat, don’t ya?” Dean said.

            “This family is one species short.”

            “If he gets a cat, then I’m getting a dog,” Sam said.

            Dean groaned. “My poor allergies.”

            “I want a lab,” Sam said. “Bones the second.”

            “Hey now, don’t start making plans when we haven’t even—“

            “Dean,” Sam said sternly. “I am thirty-six years old, I’m getting a fucking dog.”

            “Fine,” Dean moaned. “But it’s not sleeping in my room. And _you_ —“ he said with a pointed glance to Castiel, “I ain’t scooping cat shit either. Your cat, your job.”

            Castiel smiled and took a sip of the hot chocolate. It warmed him from his toes to his head.

            A few hours later, when the fire died out, the brothers needed to sleep. Sam bide Dean and Castiel a goodnight and then went into his room. Dean led Castiel into his— _their_ —room. Despite his weakened grace, he still did not require sleep to function. But Castiel enjoyed sitting next to Dean while Dean slept, keeping watch over his charge. Sometimes he let his eyes close for a moment and he meditated, but he never strayed from Dean’s room until Dean woke up.

            Dean dressed down to his sleep shirt and boxers.

            “I’m glad you’re here,” Dean whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips.

            “Me too,” Castiel said, sighing.

.

.

.

            While he meditated that night, he had a visitor.

            “Hello, Gabriel.”

            “Hey, bro. How’s it going?”

            Castiel smiled and looked down.

            “That well huh?”

            “It’s…it’s very nice,” Castiel said. He met his brother’s eyes. Gabriel gave a genuine smile. He clapped Castiel firmly on the shoulder.

            “What’d I tell you? It really is a wonderful life after all, ain’t it?”

            “I never imagined it could be like this,” Castiel admitted.

            Gabriel stared at him for a moment. “Really bro? You really have no clue?”

            Castiel tilted his head.

            “ _It’s A Wonderful Life_? ‘Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings’?”

            Castiel furrowed his brows. “What are you saying? That’s not true.”

            “James Stewart? Donna Reed? _Clarence?_ ”

            Castiel’s brows furrowed deeper.

            Gabriel sighed. “I thought Megadouche gave you the full download. Can’t believe he missed that. It’s _the_ American classic.” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose.

            Castiel took Gabriel’s hand in his. “Gabriel,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but…thank you. For not giving up on me. For not letting _me_ give up.”

            Gabriel smiled sweetly. He tousled Castiel’s hair. “’Course not, kiddo. World needs more guys like you out there.”

            “What are you going to do now?”

            Gabriel shrugged. “Whatever I want. Afterlife’s not so bad. I get all the candy I want and don’t have to worry about cavities. You’ll like it too when you get there—but not before you time, got it?”

            “I got it,” Castiel said.

            Gabriel shoved Castiel playfully. “Good. Now, get outta here! And you make sure that Winchester prat treats you right every day, or else I’m coming back to put a boot up his ass, you let him know.”

            “I will.”

            Then, Castiel lunged forward and pulled Gabriel into a hug.

            “Thank you,” Castiel said again, but it was very important that Gabriel understood how grateful he was.

            Gabriel patted Castiel on the back. “’Course, kiddo. What are big brothers for?”

            And then Gabriel was gone.

            Castiel stood there for a moment until he realized something was shaking him. He closed his eyes and could hear Dean calling his name softly.

            Castiel opened his eyes. Dean was looking at him, eyes boring into him.

            “You okay?” Dean asked tentatively.

            Castiel smiled. “I’m wonderful,” he said, and he leaned forward to press a kiss against Dean’s lips.

 

FIN  

               


End file.
